


Stay Strange

by darkjaden825698



Category: Life Is Strange 2 (Video Game), The Bright Sessions (Podcast), The Infinite Noise - Lauren Shippen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Courtroom Drama, Crossover, Gen, No new deaths will be occurring I promise, Oh and the "Major Character Death" tag just refers to the deaths that happen in canon, Prison, Redemption Ending, Sean deserves to be happy but oh boy is he going to have to work for it, Spoilers, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 31,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkjaden825698/pseuds/darkjaden825698
Summary: Click. “New patient. Male, 17 years old. An inmate at Washington State Penitentiary, currently serving fifteen years for the murder of a police officer. Why I’ve been asked to treat this boy, I’ve yet to find out. Condition unknown.”“Ma’am, he's ready for you now. Come with me.”Bzzzzzzt.“You must be Sean. My name is Dr. Bright. How are you feeling today?”----Crossover fic between The Bright Sessions podcast and Life is Strange 2, during the Redemption ending, in which Dr. Bright is assigned to Sean Diaz as his therapist.No prior knowledge of The Bright Sessions is needed to understand this fic, but there are slight spoilers for Season 1 of the Bright Sessions, and spoilers for all of Life is Strange 2
Relationships: Joan Bright/Maria Elena Flores, Sean Diaz & Improving his mental health
Comments: 33
Kudos: 56





	1. Life is Unfair

**Author's Note:**

> So this is an odd one. I just realized that these two fandoms could perfectly coexist in one universe, and then my thoughts started racing. I knew I wanted Sean to be the one to talk to Dr. Bright instead of Daniel, so I came up with this scenario of him talking to her in prison during the redemption ending. I don't know precisely how long this is going to end up being, or really where I'm going to take it, exactly. But I'm decently happy with this first chapter. This is supposed to take place post-canon for The Bright Sessions, but I'll admit I haven't listened to The AM Archives so I don't know if it totally lines up. Though to be honest, I expect this to be read more by people who haven't listened to the Bright Sessions anyway haha. And if I'm being **really** I expect the niche nature of this crossover will mean it's not read by very many people at all lol. Anyway, let me know what you guys think in the comments!

_Click._ “New patient. Male, 17 years old. An inmate at Washington State Penitentiary, currently serving fifteen years for the murder of a police officer. Why I’ve been asked to treat this boy, I’ve yet to find out. Condition unknown.”

“Ma’am, he's ready for you now. Come with me.”

_Bzzzzzzt._

“You must be Sean. My name is Dr. Bright. How are you feeling today?”

# # #

What the fuck is this shit? Who’s the shrink? Isn’t it bad enough they unjustly locked Sean up for his entire young adult life, now he’s gotta go to therapy, too?

Well, okay. Maybe therapy wouldn’t be so bad. He does have some insane shit to talk about. But it feels so impersonal, sitting here with his hands cuffed together in front of him, as this petite, doe-eyed woman cowers on the other side of the table. Like he’s gonna attack her if she gives him the chance.

This isn’t anything new, though. Everybody here treats him like an animal. Cop killer, they call him, among other, more racist things. There is one guard that’s taken a liking to him—another Latino man, can’t be all that much older than Sean himself. He likes Carlos well enough, but seeing him is just a reminder of everything he could have been if his life wasn’t complete and utter shit.

“How am I feeling?” Sean says aggressively. “How do you think I’m feeling, Dr...Bright, was it? What kind of name is that anyway?”

“A fake one,” she spits.

Wow. She’s blunt. To the point. Sean smirks. “What’s your real name then?”

Dr. Bright—or whatever her name actually is—adjusts her glasses. Sean can smell the nervousness coming off of her like soiled sheets. She clears her throat and looks Sean in the eye.

“Why don’t you just call me Joan?”

“Joan, huh? So personal.”

Damn, Sean needs to stop being such a dick. He can’t help it—he’s angry. Angry at the world for locking him up, angry at himself for letting it get this far, angry at his dad for leaving him right when he needed him most. He needs to cool it, though, he tells himself. Joan is just trying to help.

But what help can she even give him? It’s not like she’ll believe his story. Everybody here thinks he’s guilty. Heck, even Carlos thinks he did it. Even though a bunch of the cops at the border saw Daniel use his powers, the guys up here don’t know shit about what went down. And it’s not like he’s gonna try and explain it to them. They’d probably do more than just send him to a shrink if he told them what really happened.

Joan sighs. “Look, Sean. I don’t want to be here any more than you do, okay? So let’s cut the crap.”

Her attitude takes Sean by surprise. He looks down at his hands, at the cuffs locking them together. His nose itches. God, what he wouldn’t give to be able to just reach up and scratch it right now. He gets to be free-handed in his cell, which is nice, but any time he’s gotta go somewhere else—like during his visits with Daniel—they keep him locked up tight. It’s such a shitty, constricting feeling.

“I’m sorry,” Sean says. “I just...I’ve been here for under a year and already I’m...I’m going crazy, Joan. Can I...can I actually call you that? If you want me to call you Dr. Bright—”

“Joan is fine,” she says. “I know you’ve been through a lot, Sean. But I’m here to help you. Agent Flores contacted me, said that you could use somebody with my...expertise.”

Sean cocks an eyebrow. “Your expertise?”

Joan’s eyes dart around the room, like she’s looking for somebody that isn’t there. Her eyeline seems to land on the security camera in the corner. Sean twists his head to see it, and sees the light at the bottom flashing red, instead of its usual green.

“Wait, does that mean...it’s not recording us? Are we off-the-record?” Sean asks nervously.

“They’re still recording video,” Joan explains. “But I’ve asked them to cut the audio recording, for confidentiality’s sake. This may be a prison, but you’re still my patient, and you have rights.”

Sean scoffs. “Doesn’t feel like I have rights in here.”

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about your situation, Sean? I know you were convicted of murdering a police officer but…”

“But what? Everybody else seems to think I’m capable of it. Why should you be any different?”

“ _Did_ you do it, Sean? That’s not me trying to coerce a confession out of you. That’s me genuinely asking. Did you kill that police officer?”

“No! I didn’t!”

“I won’t look at you any differently if you did, Sean. Agent Flores filled me in a bit on the way over. She said this officer and your father were both found dead at the scene. It would be understandable if you got upset by this and—”

“I didn’t fucking do it, okay!”

“Then why did you run?”

“Because…” Because of Daniel. Because he was scared. Because his dad was just killed right in front of him and nothing in the world made sense anymore. He was hurt, and sad, and confused, and he panicked. That’s what he’s been reciting over and over and over to people. He was just a kid who lost his dad and was afraid of what would happen after. So he ran. But it got him nowhere. Sean’s been running his entire life, but he feels like his feet haven’t taken him anywhere.

Sean trails off, and when it becomes clear to Joan that he isn’t going to finish that thought, she clears her throat and moves on. “Agent Flores gave me some case files on my way in,” she says. “I haven’t had the chance to look at them yet, but she did say there was something...strange about your case. Do you mind if I take a look at them now?”

“Knock yourself out.”

Joan reaches into her bag and pulls out a manilla folder. She opens it up on the table, and begins sifting through the files inside. Sean watches her eyes grow wide when she flips over the crime scene photos.

“It all makes sense now.”

“What does?”

Joan closes the folder and sets it on the table. She pushes up her glasses and meets Sean’s eyes. “Sean, did Agent Flores explain to you what I do?”

“Uhh, no,” Sean says. “I mean, you’re a shrink, right? A therapist?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Joan says. “But there’s a bit more to it than that. I have experience in...well, I guess you could call it the supernatural.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sean, I’ve seen your kind before.”

“My _kind?_ ”

Ooh, Sean does _not_ like that phrase. _Your kind_ . He hears it all the time when the racist dickheads in here try and hassle him. _We don’t like your kind here,_ they say. _Go back to your own country._ Completely ignoring the fact that American _is_ his own country.

But when Joan says it, it doesn’t sound like she’s being racist towards him. She doesn’t mean _your kind_ like Mexicans. Maybe...she means something else?

“Sean, I believe you _did_ kill that officer,” she continues.

“Jesus, _really?_ I’m telling you that I didn’t.”

Joan holds up her hand, an indication for Sean to _stop. talking._ “But I don’t believe you did it on purpose. I think you were still learning to control your abilities.”

“My...what?”

“Sean, there are people in this world who can do things that the average human cannot,” Joan continues, ignoring Sean’s confusion. “Those people are called Atypicals. And I believe you might be one of them.”

Sean rolls his eyes. This lady has it _so wrong_ it’s not even funny. Except it kind of is, because she’s _so close_ to the truth, but she still has it completely ass-backwards.

That’s weird, though, right? Wouldn’t Flores have told her about Daniel’s powers? Or are they all still in denial about that to begin with? Or maybe all this is just an elaborate plan to get him to say more about Daniel, about his powers, to give them enough reason to kidnap and experiment on him.

But if they think that he’s going to give up his little brother, they’ve got another thing coming.

Sean leans back in his chair—a difficult feat considering his arms are still bound to the table. Joan watches him carefully, like she’s curiously frightened. “So...what? You think I’m Superman?”

The hint of a smile passes Joan’s face. “Not even close. I’m actually not quite sure what your power is, exactly. From the photos, I would guess it’s some form of telekinesis, moving objects with the mind. Some telekinetics can only move small objects, but some can do extraordinary things.” She pulls out one of the photos and slides it across the table.

Sean doesn’t want to look at this. He _can’t_ look at this. He knows what the scene looks like. It’s etched into his memory, the way the yard was littered with debris, broken glass scattered all over. He’ll never forget the sight of Kindred Matthews, limp beside his overturned car, how his back was snapped and his legs were twisted, and how it took Sean a solid few seconds to realize it was even a human body.

And of course, he’ll never forget the sight of his father, his open eyes drained of life, face frozen in a sad and horrified expression.

The picture Joan has handed him shows his street, blocked off with police tape. A tree has been completely split in half, and a telephone pole is seen hanging on for dear life, the base of its pole snapped like a fragile twig. Sean squeezes his eyes shut, memories flooding back so violently that his head starts to pound. He takes in a sharp breath.

“Take it away,” he begs, his raspy voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

He hears a soft shuffling of papers, and when he opens his eyes again, the table is bare.

“I’m sorry, Sean,” she says earnestly. “I didn’t intend to make you relive such painful memories.”

“Yeah, well…” Sean inhales. He tries to wipe away his tears with his shoulder, relatively unsuccessfully. “It’s okay. I know you’re just doing your job.”

Joan nods, but her lips are tight and her eyes are filled with genuine concern. It’s...kind of refreshing actually. There aren’t too many people on his side here, it seems. There’s Carlos, sure, and Flores, sort of, and Daniel comes to visit him as often as Claire can reasonably manage. But even their eyes are more filled with pity than anything else. Daniel always looks at him with such hopelessness, like he feels powerless.

But Sean doesn’t sense any pity from Joan. Sympathy, maybe, but not pity. She looks at him with a soft recognition, a familiarity that puts him peculiarly at ease.

“Sean,” she starts, but she hesitates. “If you’re okay to do so, would you mind telling me how this all happened?”

Sean tries to scratch his nose by rubbing it against his sleeve. It doesn’t help. “I got into a fight with our racist neighbor, the cop came up and started harassing us, and then he shot my dad. You know this already. You’ve read the files.”

“I don’t mean that,” she says. “I mean, how did you do it?”

“Are you trying to get a confession out of me?” Sean says. “Because I already told you I’m not a killer. I took the plea deal so my brother would be okay, but—”

“Your brother?”

Sean freezes. That was a slip; he hadn’t meant to mention Daniel. “Y-yeah,” he says. “He was with me, I—I took him when I ran...We...were both at the border.”

Joan returns her attention to the folder, frantically skimming the files. “Oh yes, I see. Your brother, Daniel Diaz. I hadn’t realized he was there with you that day.”

Shit. Back it up, Sean. Can’t have her figuring it out. “I mean, yeah, he was there, but he wasn’t _there_ , there. He was...I got him from inside…”

“This is all about your brother, isn’t it?” Joan says, not looking at him, as she continues flipping through the folder.

“No, no it isn’t. I mean, yes, he’s my brother and I ran and I took him with me but it wasn’t...he didn’t...he was asleep at the time I just sort of...took him and…”

But Joan isn’t paying attention to him, she’s engrossed in one of the files. Sean can’t see because she’s holding the folder away from him, but it’s probably Daniel’s file. She’s probably putting things together, realizing that trouble seems to follow _him_ and not Sean.

“It was me,” Sean blurts. “I did it.” Joan looks up. “Yeah, I lied. I killed him. Used that telekinesis or whatever to throw him across the street because I was pissed he killed my dad. Daniel had nothing to do with anything. I kidnapped him. It was all me.”

Joan blinks. She closes the folder and sets it down on the table. “Sean. We both know that isn’t true.”

He’s shaking. Sean is actually shaking now. With what, he doesn’t know. Fear? Anger? Resentment? Not towards Joan herself or his brother but towards this whole fucking system, towards Matthews for killing his dad, towards Flores for setting him up with this fucking shrink.

“It is. It’s true. I killed Kindred Matthews.”

And he’s crying now. Great. Real convincing. Just start sobbing at the mention of Daniel. That’s gonna draw her attention away from him.

“Sean.” Joan’s voice is soft, softer than it’s been this whole time. Not soft in terms of volume, though, there’s that, too. Sean can barely hear her over his own violent sobbing. No, it sounds soft and gentle, like when he was a kid, and would lay down in his dad’s bed after waking up from a nightmare, and Dad would gently rub his back and sing to him until he fell back asleep. It brings him that same calm, makes him feel safe.

“I can’t,” he mumbles. “I can’t. I can’t. He’s...he’s…” Even Sean doesn’t know where that sentence is trying to go, so he just lets it hang and dissolves into tears. He lays his head down on the table, because covering his face with his hands is impossible.

“Sean,” Joan says again, louder this time but with the same gentleness to it. “Sean, are you okay?”

Sean sniffs loudly and pulls his head up. “No, I’m not okay,” he sobs. “I’m in fucking prison for a murder I didn’t commit, my dad is dead, I can’t see my only remaining family except during weekly visits, and _my nose itches so fucking bad, but I can’t scratch it because I’m in these stupid FUCKING handcuffs._ ” He tugs at the cuffs binding him to the table, so hard it almost hurts.

Joan doesn’t say anything. She looks like she’s still processing his outburst, so Sean just continues. “That’s how much my fucking freedom has been taken away from me,” he shouts. “I can’t even scratch my god damn nose when I want to. I can’t go for a piss without being watched. I have to stare at the same four walls all day, every day, and it’s _so unfair._ ”

He breaks down again, lays his head back on the table and sobs. Joan is still silent. She doesn’t say anything for a long time, so it’s not entirely clear whether or not she’s even still here. But then he hears the scooch of her chair, and the click of her heels against the floor, and he thinks, _Well, this is it. You screwed it all up again, Sean. The one person trying to help you, and you drove them away with all of your baggage._

The door opens and he hears Joan walk out of the room. There’s some chatter on the other side, but Sean can’t make any of it out. A few seconds later, the door opens again, and Sean lifts his head as Joan walks back in, carrying a box of tissues. He tries to wipe his tears off on his shoulder again, but is even less successful than last time. God, his face feels all soggy and gross, and he probably looks that way, too.

Joan sits back down and places the box of tissues on the table. “I had them cut the camera feed, too,” she says. “Figured you might want some privacy to cry.”

“I’m done crying,” Sean says, but even he knows how flimsy that response is. He already feels his eyes starting to burn again. Joan pushes the box of tissues towards him, and Sean struggles trying to grab one and wipe his face with it. He manages after a few tries, leaning his head down to dab at his face with his limited movement range. It’s honestly humiliating. Joan can’t even meet his gaze when he finally sits back up. Which is fine by him.

“It’s okay to cry, Sean,” Joan says. “I know you probably hear that a lot, but it’s true. You’ve been through a lot of trauma in this past year. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

“Yes I do,” Sean mumbles. “I have to be strong, for Daniel.”

“Daniel’s not here right now, Sean. And he will be fine. I think your brother would rather see you grow and learn how to process these complex emotions, rather than bottling them up and letting them fester.”

“You do _not_ know my brother,” Sean hisses.

“No,” Joan says sternly. “But I know mine.”

Sean stares at her as her face falls to the side. “You have a brother?”

Joan nods. “Yes. He’s a few years younger than me, as well, and…” She shakes her head. “This isn’t about me. But I do know that Mark would much rather see me cry than suppress my emotions. He’s told me as such. I know how it feels to have a younger sibling, somebody you feel obligated to protect and look out for.”

“I don’t feel _obligated_ ,” Sean interrupts. “I didn’t try to protect him because I was forced to. I _wanted_ to, because he’s my brother and I love him.”

“I told myself the same thing,” Joan says. “That family looks out for family. I obsessed over protecting my brother for years, over saving him. And when I finally did, I realized...I didn’t know anything else. Mark was my entire purpose in life, and once I’d achieved that purpose, I had nowhere else to go.” Joan leans over the table and stares directly into Sean’s eyes. It’s an intense look, but not menacing or frightening. Just...intense. “Sean, listen to me. You are more than just your brother’s protector. You are your own person, and you have your own thoughts and feelings. Do you understand that?”

Sean furrows his brow. “Of course I do.”

“Then you need to learn to let go. Your brother will be fine. And if your brother is anything like mine, then he’s probably worried sick about _you._ Do him a favor, and try and focus on yourself for once.”

Sean sits back. The chains around his wrists yank him forward, but he’s able to sit his back against the chair with only a moderate sense of discomfort. “It’s kind of hard to focus on myself right now. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve kind of been stripped of any _self_ I had left.”

“Trust me, Sean. I will help you through this. And when we get you out of here, your brother will—”

“Wait,” Sean says. “Get me out of here?”

Joan glances around the room. The camera still seems to be turned off. “Sean, I may only be a therapist,” she starts, “but I am not one to sit around here and let gross miscarriages of justice like this one slide. You’re a good kid. You don’t deserve to be in here.”

“You’ve known me for like, thirty minutes.”

“I know a boy—a former patient of mine—who’s around your age. Really bright kid, but he’s got a bit of a temper. Gets himself into trouble a lot. I can’t tell you much more, for confidentiality’s sake, but...you remind me of him. And if he found himself in the same situation…” She trails off for a second, lost in thought, before shaking herself back to reality. “If he was in this situation, I would do the same thing for him. Fight tooth and nail to prove his innocence.”

“But if you prove _my_ innocence,” Sean says. “What’s going to happen to my brother? He’s...he’s the one who really did it...”

Joan chuckles to herself. “I think we have the evidence on our side, Sean. There’s no way anyone would be able to prove that a ten-year old boy single-handedly blew up an entire street.”

Sean’s mind races. Could he...could he really get out of here? He wants nothing more than to be free, to breathe the fresh air of the outdoors without the crushing weight of the iron bars surrounding him. But that just doesn’t seem possible. He already took the plea deal; he waived his right to a trial in order to protect Daniel.

Maybe Joan has a point, maybe he _is_ too self-sacrificing. There’s no way they’d convict a little kid of murder, right?

Then again, Sean’s still just a kid himself. He doesn’t feel like it—hasn’t felt like it since that day in Seattle—but he’s not even legally an adult. Yet they tried him as one. It seems like the whole world has been against him from the start. God, life is so unfair.

But Joan has a fire in her eyes. She smiles at him, and it’s such a powerful smile that Sean can’t help but smile back. Only a little bit, though. Can’t let his tough-guy persona down. “Mark my words, Sean,” she says. “We’ll get you out of here. I promise.”

Sean knows first-hand how easily promises can be broken, but he...he trusts Joan. He can’t for the life of him fathom why he’s decided to trust her after knowing her for under an hour, but he does. There’s something about her that feels comforting. Maybe Joan is an Atypical herself, and that’s her power: being a rock in a rushing rapid.

# # #

Once he's calmed down, Joan teaches Sean some mindfulness exercises, some ways to center himself when he starts getting angry or panicky. She tells him to be kind to himself, which he rolls his eyes at. He can meditate all he wants, but it’s not going to stop him from blaming himself.

“We’ll pick this back up next week,” Joan says, standing up and collecting her things. “Try and practice those exercises before our next session. I know that’s difficult, given your current situation, but give it a try for me.” 

She shrugs her bag over her shoulder and starts heading towards the door. With her hand on the handle, she turns over her shoulder to look at him. “And Sean,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“It’s going to be okay.”

And, despite himself, Sean feels he has no choice but to believe her.

# # #

Dr. Bright smiles politely at the guards standing outside the door and excuses herself, making her way towards the exit. As soon as she’s out of earshot, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her tape recorder. Without pressing a single button, she speaks into it. 

“First session went not quite as expected. It turns out the patient _isn’t_ an Atypical, but his brother is a Class A, Level 2 with telekinetic abilities. I empathize quite a bit with the boy’s situation—that of a non-Atypical who is the older sibling of an exceedingly powerful Atypical. Given the information gained in today’s session, I believe the patient is innocent and was coerced into signing a plea bargain. I will admit, I’m not an expert on the American legal system, but hopefully I can use my contacts to secure a good attorney for him. Though...making a promise like that without anything concrete to back it up...may not have been my best idea. My only hope is that I don’t find myself breaking that promise. I don’t...I don’t think the poor boy’s heart could take being let down like that again. I’ll have to discuss this further with Maria.”

And with another _click_ , the tape finally finishes recording.


	2. Life is Cruel

_Click._ “Patient number 46. Session 4. Male, 17 years of age. Serving a sentence for murder, which was, in actuality, an accidental death caused by his younger brother, a Class A with extraordinary telekinetic abilities. His demeanor has improved substantially since our first session. With each session he seems to grow more positive, and is much more receptive to my advice and strategies. However, this all comes with a caveat, as I’ve still yet to find a way to help him. I’ve used my contacts at the AM to find a few attorneys, but the only one who’s returned my call is the one Agent Green recommended to me, from outside the AM’s reach. I believe to win the patient his freedom, we’ll need somebody with knowledge of Atypicals. You’d think an organization such as the AM would have the resources to—”

“Dr. Bright? You’re clear to enter.”

_Sigh._ “Okay, thank you.”

_Bzzzzzzzzzztk._

“Hi, Sean. How are you doing today?”

# # #

Sean’s visits with Dr. Bright—and yes, he’s started calling her Dr. Bright now, for professionalism’s sake—are the highlight of his weeks. He’s only been seeing her for about a month, but he finds himself looking forward to his sessions with her. It gives him something to hang on to. Whenever he finds himself feeling hopeless, he just thinks, _I can tell Dr. Bright about this_ , and he has a reason to keep going.

Hopelessness used to be his default. He does nothing all day but sit in his cell, occasionally drawing in the sketchbook they let him have, so there’s plenty of time for it to creep into his mind. Distracting himself by working on improving his craft was helping, but it wasn’t always enough. And when he found himself with an empty mind, that’s when the hopelessness would shove its way in.

These are all things he’s told Dr. Bright over the last few weeks. He was surprised, actually, the way she would let him lead the discussion during their sessions. Sean never did therapy back at home, but he never really expected it to be so...chill.

Which is weird as fuck to be saying, given that nothing about his situation is chill at all. He’s strapped to a table for fuck’s sake. Don’t patients usually like, lay down or something during therapy?

“I’m going to ask them to move us to a more comfortable room next week,” Dr. Bright says. “I think you’ve proven yourself trustworthy enough.”

“Wow, only after a month? Was I not trustworthy enough after our first session?”

Dr. Bright smiles. “You can never be too careful. Plus, I think having more sessions under our belt will make it easier to convince the guards.”

The thought of getting to take these cuffs off, to be able to sit and stretch and scratch his damn nose like a normal person, fills him with hope. That’s been happening a lot lately. He used to feel hope’s absence like the hole in his head where his left eye should be, a constant reminder of everything he’s lost, but Dr. Bright has given him hope for the first time since he surrendered at the border.

“The first thing I’m gonna do when I get out of here,” he says absent-mindedly, “is hug my brother. Just...just give him the biggest bear hug a kid’s ever gotten.”

Sean does get to see Daniel, and they do hug during visits, but they’re always timed— anything longer than 10 seconds and the guards start getting antsy. So he can’t wait to just swoop Daniel up in his arms and squeeze him tight enough to pop his back. 

Dr. Bright chews on her lower lip. “While we’re on the subject of your brother...Any chance you’re finally willing to tell me everything that happened?”

Sean groans internally. He’s been avoiding that subject for as long as possible. Their sessions have more or less been all about his prison life and how to cope with that, and some surface-level details about the case: cop dead, ran away, apprehended at border, broke out, apprehended again. But talking about the specifics, about what he and Daniel went through on their way to the border...It’s hard to talk about.

But things at the prison have been pretty calm lately. He’s having panic attacks far less frequently thanks to Dr. Bright’s mindfulness exercises, and he’s managed to fly under the radar of all the nasty guards and other inmates, keeping to himself, spending his time drawing, avoiding trouble as much as possible. So, with every other subject exhausted, maybe it’s finally time to come clean, to spill the beans, tell the whole story.

“So after...after Dad got shot, I woke up and saw the whole street destroyed. I had no idea what had happened, but I knew it wasn’t good for Daniel and I, so...I panicked. Picked him up, grabbed some stuff, and ran. We camped out in the woods…”

Sean tells her everything. About Hank Stamper, about living at the Reynolds’, Finn and Cass, Haven Point...everything. Once he starts, he can’t stop,it comes rolling out of him like one of those endless handkerchiefs that clowns pull out of their pocket. Dr. Bright stays silent and listens the whole time. She nods her head occasionally, but she never interrupts, never asks a question, just lets him talk, lets him get everything off his chest.

And it feels _so_ good to get it off his chest. He didn’t realize it would feel this good, to just tell somebody the whole story and have them _believe_ him. At least, he thinks Dr. Bright believes him. He believes her when she says she’s seen stranger things in her life, so he has faith that the things he’s telling her are par for the course.

When he’s finished, his face is damp. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but he tries again to wipe himself off with his sleeve. He’s gotten pretty good at that, actually. When it’s clear that Sean is finished, Dr. Bright jots something down in a notebook, and looks back up at him.

“Sean, you have been through so much these past twelve months. I knew you’d been through the ringer, but this…” She clears her throat. “I believe you’re suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”

“What, like that thing soldiers get?”

Dr. Bright nods dismissively. “Well, yes, it is very common amongst people who have seen combat, but it’s not a military-exclusive condition. It can manifest from any kind of traumatic event. And, well, Sean, to put it lightly, you’ve been through a lifetime of trauma in just under a year. It’s no wonder you were having panic attacks every night.”

A weight lifts off Sean’s shoulders. All this time, Sean was trying to be strong, trying to make it seem like he’s not as broken as he feels. He’s been ignoring the past year and everything he went through, pushing it to the back of his mind and trying to focus on the day ahead of him. And some days were better than others. Some days Sean actually felt...okay. So he thought, maybe he’s just faking it, maybe he's just being a pussy and everything he’s been through is not as bad as it seems.

There are days that he wakes up, screaming as he’s pulled from a nightmare, a memory. Sometimes it’s Hank Stamper, sometimes it’s the explosion at Merrill’s. Most times, it’s the racist dickheads that made him sing to avoid getting beaten up. But when he wakes up, there’s always a moment, just a split second, where he thinks that maybe it was all just a nightmare. Everything, from Dad dying to the confrontation at the border. He always wakes up with just a moment of relief, a moment where he believes everything was just a bad dream.

He wishes it was all just a bad dream.

So, Dr. Bright, sitting in front of him, telling him that everything he’s been feeling is not only real, but understandable...it means more to him than she could ever know.

“So, I’m not...broken?”

Dr. Bright blinks. “No, of course not. You have some hurdles in your way, but you can never stray too far from the path of recovery. It may feel like it sometimes, but finding the way back is never impossible.”

Dr. Bright tells Sean about a technique called Exposure Therapy, which is basically just what it sounds like: you’re exposed to the things that traumatized you in an attempt to overcome your fear of them. She recommends they try it out, starting next week, since their time is almost up. Sean isn’t sure how helpful it’s going to be, since the things he’s afraid of are kind of hard to expose him to given his current situation.

Plus, he’s really not sure he wants to be exposed to the things that caused him so much pain and suffering.

“I’m not sure I really need that,” Sean says. “I...I really think the best thing for my mental health is getting the fuck out of here. I think I’ll be in a much better position to recover if I’m not...trapped.”

“Sean,” Dr. Bright starts. There’s a fluctuation in her voice, something that tips Sean off that she’s going to deliver some bad news.

“No,” he says. “Don’t tell me. You can’t…”

“I’m doing everything I can, Sean,” she says, unable to look him in the eye. “I thought I could use my contacts to find someone...But every lead is turning up dry.”

“No,” Sean repeats. “No, you can’t do this to me.” Dr. Bright tries to apologize, but Sean isn’t having it. He won’t let her. “No!” He stands up, and the chains around his wrists drag him back down. He rises as far as his cuffs will allow and slams his fists down on the table. “You _promised_ , Dr. Bright. You promised me you would get me out of here! This whole time, was that a lie?” Sean is fighting back tears now.

“It wasn’t!” Dr. Bright assures him. “I really thought I could help you, Sean. I _want_ to help you.”

“Then fucking _do it_ !” he screams. “I don’t care what it takes. You can’t...you can’t just give me hope like that only to rip it away from me. That’s just...that’s just _cruel._ What kind of therapist are you? Aren’t you supposed to be making me feel _better_?”

The buzzer for the door lock sounds, and a pair of guards come rushing in. One of them undoes his handcuffs while the other grabs Sean from behind and tries to restrain him. Like he needs restraining. He wasn’t going to _hurt_ Dr. Bright, he’s just upset.

That clearly isn’t the impression the guards took from the video feed, however. He must have started to look angry and violent. And maybe he is angry, violently so, but not to the point where he’d attack anyone. But he struggles against the guard — a natural defense reaction after everything he’s been through — and feels the tight, painful squeeze of a man three times his size using his full strength against him. 

“I’m not going to hurt her!” he shouts. “I swear!”

But it falls on deaf ears. As the guards drag him out of the room, the horrifying image of Dr. Bright’s face twisted with a visceral terror etches into his mind, and Sean forces himself to stop struggling.

# # #

Dr. Bright watches in horror as Sean screams and cries for the guards to let him go, before he suddenly stops, nearly goes limp, and lets the guards take him away. Another guard comes into the room and offers to escort her to the exit, but even though she’s a little shaky, she assures him she’ll be fine. 

“So, not entirely the kind of session I’d hoped for,” Dr. Bright says into her recorder. Then she sighs, deeply, contemplatively. “Patient reacted negatively when informed of the progress in his case, or lack thereof. Became agitated and, while I don’t think the patient had any intentions of violence, was rushed away by security for my safety. And we were making such good progress, too. I don’t even know if he’ll want to see me for our next session. 

“I believe the only way to get back in his good graces is by finding a way to exonerate him. If I can do that…” She pauses, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “The attorney Agent Greene recommended may be my only hope. She has an incredible track record, and is known for taking cases pro-bono if she feels the charges are unjust. I would rather have somebody with knowledge of Atypicals to take on the case, but at this point, I don’t think we have a choice. I only hope she’s still available.”

The recorder shuts off with a click, and Dr. Bright stuffs it in her bag before making her way to the exit. On the way, she pulls up the message Agent Greene sent her with the phone number, taps it, and hits _Call_.

“Ms. Venton, hi. My name is Dr. Joan Bright, I believe we spoke in an email last week? Yes, are you still available to meet? I’d like to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went back and forth for a long time debating whether or not I would going to make this a triple crossover haha. I was considering making the attorney Dr. Bright contacts Annalise Keating from How to Get Away With Murder, but figured that might be a bit much, so I created an original character. She's, ah...pretty similar in demeanor and everything to Annalise, but hopefully she seems different enough. You'll meet her next week, probably, if I can keep up the pace I've been going at.


	3. Life is Fragile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: This chapter contains depictions of panic attacks that may be triggering to some readers.

Sitting at her desk across from the new defense attorney, Dr. Bright can’t help feeling a little intimidated. Allory Venton is a behemoth of a woman, towering over Joan like a mountain over a molehill. Things aren’t helped by her hardened and stoic demeanor. She sits in front of Dr. Bright’s desk with her brow furrowed, lips curved into a permanent frown.

Maybe this was a mistake. There’s no way someone like this can help Sean if she doesn’t know the whole story — as in, the  _ whole  _ story — but Joan has a feeling she won’t respond too kindly to the idea of telekinetic ten-year olds. Allory Venton seems like a rather no-nonsense kind of gal, the kind that stopped believing in magic and superheroes a long, long time ago.

Joan clears her throat. “Right, now. I trust you’ve reviewed the case files I sent over? From Agent Flores?”

“Ah, yes. Flores. Nice girl. Good heart.” Venton reaches into her bag and pulls out a folder with the files she was sent, opens it and begins flipping through. “Right. The evidence here is circumstantial at best. The only thing they have on him is motive— crime of passion, voluntary manslaughter at best. How the hell did they manage to get a conviction with this?”

“They didn’t,” Joan answers. She opens her own set of files and pulls out Daniel’s page, sliding it over to Venton. “This is Sean’s younger brother, Daniel. They were both apprehended at the border on July 4, 2017. Sean told me he was offered a plea deal— fifteen years in prison for the immediate release and immunity of his brother.”

Venton leans over the desk and squints at the page. “Joan, this kid is  _ ten. _ ”

“Yes.”

“ _ Ten. _ ”

“Uh-huh.”

“What the hell could they possibly have pinned on this kid?”

Joan hesitates. She knows the answer — the murder of Kindred Matthews. But would they really convict a ten year old boy of murder?

Nobody else but Sean and Daniel know what really happened that day in Seattle, but if they’re to be believed, the entire thing was just an unfortunate accident. Daniel’s abilities manifested from the overwhelming grief, sadness, and anger he felt watching his dad get shot. He had no control over his powers at that point, and he was angry, yes, but Joan has no doubt in her mind that Daniel did not intend to kill Officer Matthews. Sean seems to believe this, too.

But when a police officer is killed, there’s hell to be paid. This country is particularly fond of its boys in blue, and they get upset when they lose one of their own — sometimes irrationally so. So they find somebody to blame, and the Diaz brothers happened to be the two unlucky bystanders caught up in the mess. A rowdy brown teenager was the perfect person to pin it on. It didn’t matter if he did it or not. Sean Diaz was guilty simply by being Sean Diaz.

And that’s what gets Joan’s blood boiling, the thought of this innocent boy — a child — being condemned for a crime he never committed by the very same people sworn to protect him. It sickens Joan to her core. What sickens her more is that she bought into it. She read the papers, took them at their word, believed what the media wanted her to believe. When she walked into that prison for their first session, Joan went in believing she was treating a cold-blooded murderer. She’s treated worse, of course, so she wasn’t afraid, but the fact of the matter is: she rushed judgment based on the limited information she’d received.

She felt guilty after that first session, but the guilt quickly washed away, bubbling up into white hot  _ livid _ anger. She had met this boy, this so-called killer, and he was good. He was good and kind and reminded her  _ so much _ of Caleb that she couldn’t stand seeing him in that position. She may have acted hastily in promising him his freedom, but at the time, she whole-heartedly believed it. And now, what’s done is done, what’s said is said. The only thing that matters now is getting Sean free.

Well, not the only thing that matters. She has Daniel’s safety to worry about, as well. Of one thing Joan is absolutely certain: if anything were to happen to his brother, Sean Diaz would crack like an eggshell.

So this must remain need-to-know. Venton doesn’t need to know about Daniel’s powers. Even though his powers provide an answer to all of her questions.

“I don’t know what they could have on him,” Joan says at last. “In fact, it’s quite possible they  _ don’t _ have anything. Which is why I’m starting to believe Sean was coerced into taking the plea deal.”

Venton leans back, and stares up at the ceiling, her eyes spinning as she watches the ceiling fan turn. She chews on her lip, raises an eyebrow, and loses herself in thought for a moment. “That makes sense. They needed somebody to throw to the lions, keep them sated and satisfied. In other words, they  _ needed _ Sean to be guilty of something, so they made him believe that he was.”

“Exactly.” Joan flips through the files again, stopping at the record of his stay at the hospital in Humboldt, California. “If we’re considering the charge of Matthews’ murder as null, up until the vehicle theft at the hospital, Sean’s record is completely clean. Even by the accounts he and other witnesses have given, the only thing Sean was guilty of until then was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“It may be a challenge to convince a jury of his innocence with that. If he’s not guilty, why did he run? To protect his little brother? From what? I’m just not sure a jury will buy that.”

“This is all assuming we’re even granted the motion for a retrial,” Joan says.

“Oh, we’ll get the retrial,” says Venton confidently. “I think we have more than enough evidence to suggest that Sean was unethically manipulated into signing the plea deal. The issue will then become: how do we prove the kid’s innocent?”

“That really is the question of the hour, isn’t it?”

“Any ideas?”

Of course she has an idea, but it is by no means a viable one. The easiest way to prove Sean’s innocence is to prove that Daniel was the one who — accidentally — killed Officer Matthews. But the only way they could do that is by revealing Daniel’s Atypical abilities to the world, or at the very least, a courtroom full of civilians. And that was just out of the question.

Besides, even if it granted Sean his freedom, there is no way that he, by any stretch of the imagination, would be okay with throwing his brother under the bus. Joan knows this, and she’s sure Venton knows it as well.

So, no, they would have to come up with some other way.

Venton sighs, and hoists herself out of the chair. “Well, I’ll be in touch, Joan.”

“You’re leaving?”

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Venton heads towards the door. “Yep. Gonna do some digging, use some of my sources to get some more information about the Diaz boys and their case. Maybe I’ll be able to come up with something. Give me a ring if you think of anything.”

“I will, and thank you again.”

As Venton leaves, Joan collapses into her chair and sighs dramatically. She had such conviction about this after her first session with Sean. She was positive she would be able to help him. But she has no foothold in the legal system, she has no prior knowledge. She shouldn’t have made a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep.

She’s hit a block. No matter how hard she tries to come up with a solution — one that gets Sean out of prison, without revealing Daniel’s powers or his part in Kindred Matthews’ death — nothing comes to her. With a sigh, Joan gets up and walks over to the cabinet near her window. She reaches in and pulls out a bottle of scotch, fills a glass, and tips it back.

Sometimes scotch helps her see clearer. Sometimes it does the opposite, clouding her thoughts with a misty haze. But at this point, there’s nothing better to do. She fills the glass again and sits back down at her desk, taking her time sipping on this one.

She needs to think about something else, something that isn’t directly related to the case, so she starts flipping through her calendar to see what patients she has coming in over the next few days.

Oh, tomorrow should be her weekly appointment with Sean. With the way things ended last week, Joan isn't sure if Sean even wants to see her. But at least now, if he does, she has some good news to share. Sort of. Maybe it's best if they don't discuss the case at length next session, and instead focus on healing Sean's mental trauma.

Not sure what else to do, Joan picks up her office phone and dials the number for Agent Flores.

It rings twice before she answers. “This is Flores.”

“Hi Maria, it’s Dr. Bright. I’m calling about my weekly appointment with Sean Diaz for tomorrow. I haven’t heard from the prison as to whether or not our appointment is still on, and was wondering if you’d heard anything.”

“I’m not in charge of Sean’s case anymore,” Maria says. “So you’d be better off calling the prison to confirm.” She hesitates, but it’s clear there’s more she wants to say. “But...I have been keeping an eye on him. They put him in solitary confinement for a few days. He should be out by now, but I’m not sure if they’ve canceled your appointment or not.”

Joan covers her mouth in shock. “God, solitary? That poor kid. He wouldn’t have hurt me. They have to know that. Sean is a good kid. He may have a bit of a temper, but he’s not violent.”

“Tell that to Kindred Matthews’ family,” Maria deadpans.

Joan pauses. “Maria…”

“Look, I know you’re trying to help him, Joan. I feel for the kid, I really do. But as much as I like him, he is still a criminal. He killed somebody — a cop — and then ran away to avoid arrest.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Maria is silent for a long time before finally responding. “Honestly, I don’t know what to believe. All I know is what I’m told to believe. It’s not my job to see the best in people, Joan. That’s your job. That’s why I hired you.  _ You _ specifically. I figured, if anybody could help this kid, it’s Joan Bright.”

“I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations.”

“You’d better.” Another pause. “And...just so you know...My guys aren’t too happy with what you’re doing, trying to get Sean out of jail. We arrested him for a reason, he was imprisoned for a reason. They’re calling you a cop-killer apologist.”

“I’ve been called worse. If I cared what others thought of me, I wouldn’t be where I am today.”

“I know. And it’s one of the many things I admire about you.” Maria sighs. “I’m on your side, Joanie. I’m on Sean’s side. But my superiors aren’t. And if it comes down to it, orders are orders. It’s nothing personal.”

“I understand, Maria. I appreciate you giving me the chance to set things right.”

“Do you mean for Sean, or for us?”

Joan doesn’t see why it can’t be both.

Neither of them says anything for a really long time after that. Finally, Maria breaks the silence. “Just don’t fuck it up.”

A weak laugh escape’s Joan’s lips. “I’ll try not to. Thanks again.”

She’s about to say good-bye and hang up, but her eyes brush over a picture on her desk, one of her and her brother Mark, smiling at the camera with their arms around each other's shoulder. And it gets her thinking. Maybe Daniel can still help, still be involved, without having to reveal his powers. If they can hear his side of things, maybe they’ll figure out some clue on how to proceed.

“Hey, while I have you,” Joan says. “Do you happen to have the phone number for Daniel Diaz’s grandparents in Oregon? I think speaking to him could be beneficial, give me a different perspective on Sean and his struggles over the past year.”

# # #

As Sean sits in the cold, dank room, with his hands shackled to the table, and the harsh flickering light of the fluorescent bulbs above him shining directly into his one good eye, he feels claustrophobic. He’s used to feeling constrained — living in a cell the size of a bathtub will do that to you — but after staring at the same blank wall for 72 hours, not being able to move his arms feels downright strangling.

Solitary was...bad. Let’s leave it at that. It was the worst thing Sean has ever experienced, by  _ far _ , and that’s saying something considering just over a year ago, his dad was shot, his brother killed a cop by accident, and they were forced to run away and live on their own. In solitary, Sean sat, alone in an empty room, the fluorescent lights searing into his skin for 24 hours a day, thinking. It reminded him of being grounded, in a sort of twisted, roundabout way.

When he was really little, before Daniel was born, whenever he would do something bad (which was quite often, he was a bit of a problem child), Karen would send him not to his own room for punishment, but to the home office-slash-gym-slash-storage room that would later become Daniel’s bedroom. There was nothing to do in that room — the exercise equipment was too big for him, he couldn’t get onto his mom’s computer, and all of the storage was stowed neatly in pillars of boxes in a way that baby Sean couldn’t climb even if he wanted to — so there was nothing to do but sit, cry, and think. After almost five minutes of this, Sean would start to lose it, and he would pound on the door, sobbing and begging to be let out, apologizing for every bad thing he’d ever done.

That was one afternoon. This was  _ three days. _

He did a lot of crying then, too, the same way he would as a kid. The only difference is, a four-year old kid crying about being locked away is understandable; a seventeen-year old felon is just pathetic.

The buzzer of the door makes him jump, and Dr. Bright steps in cautiously, noticing the fear on his face. He shivers and tries to steady his breathing as she walks over to the table and sits down. The scrape of her chair against the cold concrete shakes Sean to his core.

“Hey, Sean,” Dr. Bright says, as softly and gently as possible. It somehow puts him even less at ease. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m sorry,” he sputters, like the words had lived in the back of his mouth for so long, he couldn’t get them out quick enough. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He presses his hands to his forehead and squeezes his eye shut, wanting to scream.

Dr. Bright looks at him, concerned. “Sean.”

“I’m sorry,” he mutters again, this time mostly to himself. How is Dr. Bright not shivering? It’s gotta be like 20 degrees in this room. He inhales shakily.

“Sean,” Dr. Bright repeats, firmer this time.

He gasps, choking on his tears, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. God damn mother... _ fuck _ .

It’s hard to form any kind of coherent thought right now. He reaches out for one, but it slips away. He struggles desperately to calm himself down, bring himself back to reality. He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

“Sean, breathe. I’m here. Just breathe.”

Somehow, he finds the strength to do so, sucking in a huge breath, holding it in his lungs for as long as possible before it comes spilling out of his mouth. He does it again. And again. And now, finally, he feels his pulse slowing. His breathing starts to return to normal. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Ah, sorry...”

“You don’t need to keep apologizing, Sean. All of this is my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” Sean wipes away the tears from under his eyes to the best of his ability and clears his throat, loosening the phlegm that had taken up residence in his esophagus. God, that was embarrassing. And scary. He thought he was losing it for a minute, there. “I’m the one who overreacted, got violent, scared you. I shouldn’t have...shouldn’t have done that. I’m...sorry.”

“It’s okay, Sean. Really. If I hadn’t...gotten your hopes up.” Dr. Bright sighs.

“It’s okay, too,” Sean says. “I mean, I’m still upset that you lied, and broke your promise, but...I know you were trying. I...I’m grateful you’re able to do anything at all.”

Dr. Bright shifts in her seat. She opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself, and chews on her bottom lip.

“What?” Sean asks.

“It’s nothing,” Dr. Bright says, a bit too quickly. “Let’s...let’s talk. Are you...are you doing okay after…” She trails off.

“After solitary?” Sean finishes. Dr. Bright nods. “Heh, not in the slightest.”

“Are you comfortable talking about it?”

Sean shrugs. “I guess...It’s...it was like…” His voice is shaky, but he manages to tell Dr. Bright about the past few days. It’s hard to get through, with it being so vivid and fresh in his mind, but he does it, and Dr. Bright looks more horrified the more he tells her.

“That...that does sound...God, Sean, I am so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing!” he snaps, then his face falls and he sinks back into his seat. “Gah, sorry. I’m just...it was my fault. I lost control of my temper, and...I have to live with the consequences.”

“Sean, solitary confinement is an extreme and unjust punishment, particularly for someone your age. People have petitioned to have it outlawed for years. It is  _ okay _ to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m not okay, though,” Sean scoffs. “I  _ know _ I’m not okay. I had three goddamn days to realize I’m not o-fucking-kay.”

Sean feels another attack coming on, squeezes his eyelids shut and tries to calm his breathing. He succeeds, but only at the cost of tears beginning to well up in his eye. A sob escapes him, and he leans over the table as much as his chains will allow and rests his head. “I think I really am broken, Dr. Bright.”

“You’re not broken, Sean.”

“No, I am,” he sobs. “I’m like a shattered mirror. All I’m good for is bad luck and stabbing those who try and pick up my pieces.”

Dr. Bright says nothing. It’s because it’s true. He knows it, she knows it, the world fucking knows it. He’s a failure, a fuck-up. He deserves every bit of torture he’s getting here. He deserves more than three days in solitary, he deserves more than fifteen years in this place. Fifteen  _ fucking _ years.

If he’s this broken halfway into year one, who knows what would walk out of here in fifteen year’s time. Whatever it is, it wouldn’t be Sean. Not Sean as he knows himself now, at least. And the Sean he is now is already lightyears away from the Sean he was back in 2016, back when he still had a dad, a home, a best friend, and a life ahead of him.

What if Sean Diaz is so broken, that even putting him back together can’t fix him? What if the pieces are so misshapen, that they don’t fit together anymore?

“Sean…”

Sean looks up, and Dr. Bright is still there, looking at him with concern. More than concern, worry. Pity. Her voice is gentle, but her furrowed brow tells Sean she’s more worked up than she appears.

“Dr. Bright, I can’t do this anymore,” he sobs. “I can’t be in here any longer. I’m just a kid. I’m just a fucking kid. I’m not gonna last in here.” His head feels like there’s an anchor strapped to it, weighing him down on the table as he hides his face and weeps in shame.

Then Sean feels a gentle touch on his head, a light, calming caress. He looks up, and Dr. Bright moves her hand away.

“I’m sorry,” she says, sitting back down. “I know that was...incredibly unprofessional of me. I used to do that to Mark, my brother, when he was upset. It...it always calmed him down.”

Sean hasn’t felt anything as soft as that in...months, maybe. He’s been able to hug Daniel a few times, but...this took him back even further, to when he was a kid. It was like, after being grounded, and Karen had decided he’d cried enough tears, she’d open the door to the office-slash-gym-slash-storage and he would go running at her, tackling her leg in a hug and apologizing for being such a bad kid. And then, Karen would reach down, pick him up, and he’d hang off her with his arms wrapped around her, and she would rub his back and tell him, “You’re a good boy, Sean. You may make bad choices, but bad choices don’t make a bad person. If you say sorry, and you try every day to be a little less bad, then you will never,  _ ever _ be bad.”

It’s like that memory was just unlocked, like he reached a story beat in a video game and a flashback played. He never remembered Karen doing that. He only ever remembered the bad stuff, the groundings, the sad look on her face, the way she left without saying anything. He’s focused for so long on the bad, that he forgot that Karen had a good side, even back then. He forgot that the reason he was so mad that she left in the first place was  _ because  _ of the good things.

And just like those cutscenes, Sean comes out of it with a renewed sense of optimism, a drive to continue the story forward. He picks himself up, wipes the tears off his face, and breathes in deeply.

“Thanks, Dr. Bright,” he says weakly. “For...for everything.”

“Of course, Sean.”

The rest of their session proceeds like normal. Sean continues talking about his time in solitude — though there isn’t much else to say — and how his overall mood has been since their last session (bad, very, very bad). Dr. Bright walks him through some more meditation exercises, which really does help him calm down quite a bit. He’s still a little shaken up, but he’s in better shape than he was before.

Try every day to be a little less bad, his mom had said. She had believed in him back then, and Sean knows she believes in him now. He still hasn’t fully accepted that he  _ isn’t _ bad, but if he tries to be better, maybe someday he can find some redemption.

# # #

Dr. Bright keeps her emotions in check, smiling politely at the guards as she makes her exit. As soon as she’s outside, she pulls out her phone, and calls the number listed on the Washington State Penitentiary website.

“Superintendent Warren,” a gruff voice answers.

Joan wastes no breath. “How.  _ dare _ you? You locked a kid — a  _ minor _ — in solitary confinement for three days? Solitary confinement is known to have significant psychological effects on  _ grown men _ , and you threw a  _ child _ in there? You have undone the  _ weeks _ of progress we had made in our prior sessions, and introduced an  _ entirely  _ new set of trauma for us to work through. And I don’t care if it wasn’t you who made the decision, you let it happen. You let a seventeen-year old boy stew in his own mind — which, mind you, is already not fully stable, hence why I was here in the  _ first _ place — for several days. Do you have  _ any _ idea what that does to a child’s psychological development? You have caused irreversible damage to my patient with your immoral, unethical, blatantly uncalled for  _ torture _ disguised as rehabilitation, and you  _ will _ be hearing from his attorney, and mine. I don’t know how you sleep at night, Superintendent Warren, but if you know what’s good for you, you’ll do it with one eye open tonight.”

She gives the man not a single second to respond, and hangs up the phone. It doesn’t have the same  _ punch _ as slamming the receiver down on her office phone does, but Dr. Bright still feels the adrenaline surge through her veins. Maybe making threats to a prison warden isn’t the  _ best _ idea, but he deserves it, and it felt  _ good _ to lay into him like that. Scary good.

Now, onto the next order of business: making sure Sean Diaz walks free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Alari Odonell and newwayhome for helping me edit this chapter!! It was a huge help!


	4. Life is Fleeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: This chapter contains mentions of and injuries resulting from violence, as well as characters intoxicated from painkillers. They're minor elements of the chapter, but I figured I should mention it in case somebody's uncomfortable by that and it doesn't blindside them!

_Click._ “Patient number 46. Session 6. Male, 17 years of age. I have a soft spot for this one. He’s such a sweet boy, reminds me a lot of Ca — _ahem_ , of Patient number 11. He is dealing with a lifetime of trauma, condensed into just over a year. I’ve decided to avoid the subject of his trial for the time being, as it seems to be a strong trigger for him. It’s something we’ll have to discuss eventually, but for now, I’d like to focus on helping him work through his feelings of anger, frustration, and grief. I fear with everything that’s happened to him, he hasn’t had the opportunity to properly grieve the loss of his father, and this is what I intend to focus on in today’s session.”

# # #

The buzzer for the security lock sounds out, and Sean looks up from staring absently at his fingers. It’s hard to see Dr. Bright come in, with his only remaining eye swollen nearly-shut. As if having one working eye didn’t make it hard enough to see where he was going. Sean bumped into the guard a number of times on the way here, and he kind of thought the guard was going to kill him. Instead, the guard was just a little extra abrasive in sitting him down at the table and locking his hands up. But he can see enough that he notices the concerned expression on Dr. Bright’s face as she sits down.

“What happened to your eye?” Dr. Bright asks.

“Wow, Dr. Bright, you’ve been seeing me for over a month and you’re just now noticing that I only have one eye?” he jokes.

“No, Sean, I know about your missing eye, I’m talking about the one that looks like an alien parasite growing out of your eye socket.”

“Oh, this?” Sean points at his face to the best of his ability. “You should see the other guy.” Then he starts giggling to himself. “Nah, I’m playing. The other guy’s fine. Didn’t lay a finger on him, even though I wanted to.”

“Are you...okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just a little loopy from the pain meds they gave me in the infirmary.”

“You got that black eye _today?_ What happened?”

Sean yawns. Man, he’s tired. He didn’t get his usual afternoon depression-nap in today, because of the fight — if you can really call getting pummeled by a dude in the courtyard a fight — plus, the vicodin he took has him feeling kind of hazy, so he’s extra, _extra_ sleepy right now. “It’s no big deal. I just...got beat up, that’s all.”

“That’s all? Sean, your eye is almost swollen shut.” Dr. Bright sighs. “Okay, tell me about this fight. How did it start?”

Sean makes a show of sighing dramatically, which ends up devolving into laughs. “Okay, so there’s this guy, right? His name’s Eddie or something, I don’t know. I don’t pay attention to his name. But he’s the _wooooooooooorst_ , right?” He groans. “Like he’s constantly up in my business, which is weird because I would think the other inmates would be scared of a guy who presumably threw a guy so hard he died of internal bleeding, but what the fuck do I know, right? Anyway this dude’s like...not much older than me, maybe like 20? I don’t know, I’m bad with ages. Like I would try and guess your age but not only would I be _super_ off but like, that's impolite to try and guess a woman’s age, isn’t it? Or is that weight?”

“Sean,” Dr. Bright interrupts. “The fight? Eddie?”

“Oh yeah, that douchebag,” Sean says. “So yeah, we’re just like, in the courtyard after lunch, right? And I’m just sitting there drawing in my sketchbook, and this dude comes up to me, calls me some racist shit, and then flips the notebook out of my hands. And I stand up, all pissed, right? Like, ready to tussle? Wait, no, that’s a dumb word. We didn’t tussle, it was a fight, like, between men, and stuff.”

Dr. Bright sucks in her lips, trying to hide a laugh, and Sean grins. It’s always great when you get your therapist to laugh at your dumb jokes. Sean’s doing so well in therapy, he’s definitely going to get a good grade. Which is totally a normal thing to want, right? Do they even give grades in therapy?

“So yeah, I like, stand up, and I’m ready to throw down, but then I remembered solitary and was like, ain’t no way in hell am I going back there. So I just picked up my sketchbook and was gonna walk away, but then he said some shit about my ‘criminal little brother’ and I was like, ‘aw _hell_ no’ and then he said something like, ‘daddy deserved it’ and I was like, ‘aw _heeeeeeeeellllll_ no!’”

“And then you two fought?”

“Nah, I was still too fucking chickenshit about going back into solitary so I just like, spit in his face.”

“Sean,” Dr. Bright chastises.

“Yeah, he didn’t seem to like that either.” Sean shrugs. “The guy’s fist was hard as stone. I’ve been through worse, though. Like, I’m already missing one eye, what’s a little bruising, right?”

Dr. Bright clears her throat. “Yes, um, why don’t we discuss that, shall we? Some of the things you’ve been through?”

“Like what?”

“Tell me about your father.”

Sean freezes. He doesn’t really want to talk about this, and even though his brain is still doing loop-de-loops, he’s lucid enough to know that. But he also knows that there’s no real getting around it. Dr. Bright had to bring up the topic sooner or later. Might as well get it over with now.

“He’s...he was...the best. Like, super chill about everything. One time he grounded me for finding pot in my room, and then that weekend he took me to a wrestling match we’d both been dying to go see. And the day of the par — the day he died...I told him that there would probably be smoking and drinking at the party I was going to, and he didn’t care. I mean, he _did_ , but more in a, ‘make sure you’re safe’ way than a, ‘how dare you get involved in that kind of stuff you’re only sixteen’ way.”

“And, other than the...obvious immediate consequences, how did his death affect you?”

Sean shifts in his seat. “I was sad, obviously. And angry, at Matthews. And...so fucking scared. I just...I was terrified that we would be next, that the police would show up, and see two Mexicans sitting next to a dead cop and put an end to us right there. Plus, there was Daniel’s...you know.”

“And have your feelings changed at all since then?”

“I...don’t know. I’m still sad, like, all the fucking time, and I don’t think I will _ever_ stop being angry at Matthews, and I think I’m actually more scared now than I ever was before. Because yeah, Daniel is safe now, but that could change at any second. Somebody could find out about his powers and try and take him away, or some older kid at his school could try and convince him to use them to do bad things, and I can’t be there to stop them, to protect him.”

“Why do you feel like you have to protect Daniel?”

“Because he’s my brother,” Sean breathes. “You said you’d do the same thing for your brother, didn’t you? You should know why.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you. Sean, from what you’ve told me, your brother seems more than capable of handling himself. And when I talked to him, all he could tell me about were the ways you shaped him into a better person. So why do you still feel that you have to be so self-sacrificing?”

“Wait,” Sean says. “You talked to my brother? When? What for?”

Something creeps into the back of Sean’s mind. It’s like the feeling he got when he found out Dr. Bright hadn’t done anything with his case, but not quite as intense. He trusts Dr. Bright now, more or less, but she went behind his back to talk to his brother. That’s sketchy. Was he wrong to put his faith in her?

Dr. Bright nods. “Just the other day. Ms. Venton and I went to see him, get his side of things.”

Oh yeah, the new defense attorney. Dr. Bright told Sean about her over the phone the other day. He wasn’t aware they’d gone to see Daniel, though. It still kind of makes him uneasy.

“What did you guys need Daniel for?”

“Well, Ms. Venton was considering using him as a character witness — someone to testify at your trial on the kind of person you are. I, personally, tagged along, because I felt he could offer a unique perspective into your life, shed some light on things that you may have left out, intentionally or otherwise.”

Sean’s mind starts to steady itself as the vicodin wears off. It feels almost like a buzz is being dragged from his brain out through his toes. Sean’s been high before, of course, but man, vicodin is something else. Almost immediately his eye begins to burn again with a dull, throbbing pain. He doesn’t get his next dose until after dinner, so this is gonna suck for the rest of the afternoon.

“So, what kind of ‘unique perspective’ did it give you?”

Dr. Bright leans in. “Sean, have you actually been able to grieve your father’s death?”

It’s hard with his only good eye almost swollen shut, but he gives Dr. Bright a skeptical look. “Of course I’ve been grieving his death? It’s all I ever fucking do.”

“You’ve been looking after your brother — raising him, essentially — all on your own, since the moment your father was shot. It doesn’t seem like you’ve had time to process your grief, to really, properly mourn his loss.”

The things Dr. Bright says ring with truth. Sure, over the past year he’s been sad plenty of times, more often than not, actually. Some nights, even as far out as their time in Away, Sean would wait until Daniel was asleep, then sneak out to where Daniel couldn’t see him cry. But he never let himself fully submerge in the sadness, in his pain, because he thought that if he did, he would drown. And Daniel couldn’t see him being weak, not when Sean was the only one left in his life that he could really look up to.

In prison, even though Daniel can’t see him, he can’t let himself be weak. He couldn’t let anybody _else_ see him as weak. But it is so fucking hard being strong.

Maybe Sean _hasn’t_ had the chance to really grieve.

“So,” he says, “what...what am I supposed to do? How do I...grieve?”

“I think you need some kind of closure,” Dr. Bright says. “Your father was ripped away from you so suddenly, and so violently, that you never had the chance to say good-bye.”

“Yeah, but...he’s dead. How do I say good-bye to him? Unless you know someone that can speak to the dead — wait, _do_ you know someone like that?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Dr. Bright says, smiling softly. “But why don't we pretend that _I_ have that power? Try saying to me all of the things you never got to say to your father."

"I... really? That just seems kind of…"

"Strange?" Dr. Bright finishes.

"Ha, yeah."

"I think you'd be surprised to find that this is actually a common technique used in grief counseling, even without knowing people with powers. If talking to me directly is uncomfortable, you could try pretending he's over in the corner, or you could close your eye and imagine him standing in front of you."

Sean has to admit, he's skeptical that this will really help anything. But at this point, there can't be any harm in trying. He squeezes his eye shut — a slightly painful action, considering — and tries to picture Dad, tries to picture his old home. Instead of sitting in this cold, sterile room chained to a table, he pretends he's sitting on the loveseat in his living room, watching _Top Gear_ with his dad. It's a fleeting fantasy, but for a second, he feels he can believe it's real.

"So should I like...address him by name? As if he's really right here?" Sean asks.

"Do whatever you're most comfortable with."

He takes a deep breath. "Hey, Dad…" The image of his father on the couch turns to look at him.

"Keep going," Dr. Bright encourages.

"Um...How’s...how are things...God, I feel so fucking stupid.”

“You’re doing fine, Sean. Just tell him how you feel.”

Tell him how he feels. That’s easier said than done, because, honestly, Sean hasn’t even figured out how he feels, yet. Other than, sad…Maybe a little hopeless. But he doesn’t find himself saying any of that, but instead, “I miss you, Dad. I miss you so fucking much.”

_I miss you, too, hijo,_ Sean imagines Dad saying. He doesn’t actually hear the words, but he pictures his mouth moving, and the words just sort of appear in Sean’s mind.

“I took care of Daniel, just like you wanted. I...I tried so hard to be strong, for him, for you...I wanted so badly to be brave, but…” He swallows a sob. “I was scared. I don’t think I’ve stopped being scared, not once, since you died. I was always scared of what was going to happen next. I was scared of something happening to Daniel, or to my friends, or to me...I’m so sorry that I disappointed you, that I let the son of Esteban Diaz become a criminal, just like the world wants to believe.”

Dad doesn’t say anything. Obviously, because this is just his imagination. But he pictures Dad looking at him with that look he always used to give him, the one he gave whenever Sean thought he was in more trouble than he actually was. Even as a kid, Sean had major anxiety — even though he didn’t know that’s what it was called — and Dad would have to tell him, sometimes with looks, and others with words, that he could never do something to make him stop loving him. Ever.

“I never meant to let you down,” Sean says. He’s crying now, there’s no stopping it. “You were always trying to push me in the right direction, and I...I fucked it up. I’m sorry, Dad. I wish I could make it right by you.”

The Dad in his mind gets up off the couch, and places a hand on Sean’s shoulder. And it’s stupid, but for a second, he actually thinks he feels his touch. Dad looks at him, smiles sadly down at him, but he still says nothing. Because it just feels wrong to put words in his mouth.

When he opens his eye, Dr. Bright is smiling at him, but she’s a little misty-eyed. “Sean,” she chokes, then clears her throat. “You appear to be holding onto a lot of guilt regarding your father and his death. It might be time to take a step back, look at your actions, and give yourself the benefit of the doubt.”

“How can I,” Sean says, blinking away tears, “when everything that’s happened is my fault?”

“You were simply doing what you believed was best for you and your brother. You boys were put in an impossible situation and —”

“No, _before_ that. _Everything_ that’s happened is my fault. I made a metric shit-ton of choices that day that all led to my dad getting shot. It’s _my_ fault he’s dead.”

That’s the last thing Sean can say before he completely breaks down. This is becoming a common thing at his sessions with Dr. Bright, isn’t it? Maybe that means they’re making progress. Or maybe Sean is just a pathetic loser, just like he’s always believed.

He cries for a bit, all while Dr. Bright looks on wearing a look of empathetic concern. After a few minutes, his eye is swollen even more and it stings from his salty tears. Dr. Bright tries to smile at him to ease the tension.

It _kinda_ works.

“Why do you believe it’s your fault?” Dr. Bright asks.

“Because.” Sean sniffs. “There were so many things I could have done differently that day. If I’d been nicer to Daniel, then he wouldn’t have gone out to play zombie and accidentally spilled the fake blood all over Brett. If I hadn’t started that fight, then Brett wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and Matthews wouldn’t have thought I did something bad to him. And if I had just calmly explained the situation to Matthews, instead of trying to make excuses like, ‘he was attacking my little brother,’ then he wouldn’t have gotten so scared, and he wouldn’t have pulled the trigger.”

“You were a scared kid, in a state of heightened emotion. Anybody would have reacted to the situation in a similar manner. There’s almost always something we could have done differently, when looking back on the past with a clearer head. But the thing is, we don’t always have a clear head. Human beings are not entirely rational creatures. Sometimes we’re driven by logic and reason, but other times we make decisions based solely on emotion. And sometimes, those emotions are so strong that they completely overwrite any sense of logic we might have had otherwise. It’s easy to say, ‘I should have done this differently,’ now that you’re no longer in that situation, but at the time, the decisions you made were not bad ones in the slightest. You had no way of knowing that not playing with your brother would lead to a confrontation with your neighbor, and you had no way of knowing that that confrontation would be observed and misread by a police officer, and you had no way of knowing that that police officer was barely ten years your senior, a rookie with little proper training, who would be scared by a couple of kids just because they aren’t white.”

“But —” Sean starts.

“You’re not a psychic, Sean. You can’t tell the future. You made a decision, based on the information you had at the time. Maybe it ended up being the wrong decision, or maybe it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. You don’t know, and you can’t know, because you can’t go back and change the past. It was not your fault.”

It was, though. Dr. Bright just doesn’t understand. If he’d only been a better brother, a better son…

“Sean,” Dr. Bright calls, and Sean looks back up at her. She has a serious look on her face. “Let me repeat that. It is _not_ your fault. I want you to say that, out loud, for me. Can you do that?”

“No,” Sean says, and it’s kind of the truth. He doesn’t think he really can say that out loud, because it’s just...not true. It _is_ his fault, it’s _entirely_ his fault. He deserves everything that happened to him, because he killed his own father. He didn’t pull the trigger, but he may as well have. Whichever way you look at it, he’s responsible for the death of Esteban Diaz, and that’s something he has to carry with him for the rest of his life.

“ _Sean_ ,” Dr. Bright repeats. “Say it. ‘It is not my fault.’”

“It is my fault, though.” Sean’s being stubborn now, and he knows it, but he can’t help it. Once he gets on one of these self-loathing trips, he just keeps falling further and further down the mine shaft until he hits the bottom. And then it’s only a matter of time before a cave-in crushes him underneath the rubble.

Dr. Bright sighs. “Our time is already almost up,” she says. “But I want you to think about what I said, okay? I want you to try...to try and forgive yourself. Okay, Sean? I just want you to _try._ ”

He doesn’t know how, or where to even begin, but if Dr. Bright believes in him, then, well, maybe he just needs to believe in himself, too.

“Okay,” Sean says. “I...I’ll try.”

# # #

On the way out of the prison, Dr. Bright runs into Maria Flores. Almost literally, in fact, as neither of them are looking where they’re going, Joan finishing up her audiolog and Maria looking at something on her cell phone. Maria looks up just in time and manages to swerve out of the way, but it knocks her off balance and she stumbles backwards and has to balance herself against the wall.

Joan notices Maria stumbling, and reaches out to help her steady herself. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” she says.

Maria regains her balance and brushes herself off. “No harm done.” She tucks her phone back in her pocket, as Joan stuffs her recorder into her purse. “You just get done with your session with Sean? How did it go?”

“Well, you know I can’t give you the specifics,” Joan says. “Confidentiality, and all. But things are going well. We’ve been making quite a few breakthroughs.”

“That’s excellent. I knew you were the woman for the job.”

“What are you doing here? On assignment?”

“Actually I’m here to talk to the superintendent.”

Joan groans. She hasn’t been a very big fan of Superintendent Warren since Sean was put in solitary confinement. Maria laughs at her reaction. “Yeah,” she says. “My thoughts exactly. I’m here to speak with him about Sean, actually.”

“Tear him a new asshole for me,” Joan scoffs.

“My, my,” Maria quips. “When did Dr. Joan Bright get such a potty-mouth?”

Joan laughs. “Maybe I’ve changed a bit in the last few years.”

“Or maybe I never knew the real you.”

Joan is sure Maria intended it as a joke, but both of their gazes fall to the floor. It’s been years since she and Maria have really seen each other, and all it’s doing is bringing up painful memories of the past.

“Maria, I —”

“Save it,” Maria interrupts. Her tone is calm and even, rehearsed. “What’s done is done. It’s...it’s not your fault.”

And here Joan is, about to protest, when she realizes she’s falling into the same trap as Sean. It would be hypocritical of her to blame herself when she just got done telling a patient not to do the same.

Even if this actually _was_ all her fault.

“How — how is he, by the way?” Joan asks.

“Alex? He’s alright. He doesn’t even remember anything.”

“That makes sense. He was so young when…” Joan trails off. “Has he shown any abilities since then?”

“Not a one. I don’t know what the hell they did to him there, but either it completely backfired on them...or it worked exactly as intended. Though I can’t exactly say I’m upset at the fact that I’m no longer waking up to storm clouds above my bed every time Alex has a bad dream.”

“Maria, you have to know. Letting the AM study your son, it...it was the worst mistake of my life. I regret it every day.”

“It’s not your fault,” Maria repeats. “Something in my gut told me it was a bad idea, but I trusted you more than anyone. I realize now that that was a mistake.” She won’t meet Joan’s eyes. “Anyway, I have to get going. But...it was good to see you, Joan. I mean that.”

“Yeah,” Joan says. “You too.”

Maria pulls her phone back out of her pocket and continues typing at it as she rounds the corner, disappearing from Joan’s sight as she heads towards Warren’s office.

This is good, Joan thinks. It’s the first time they’ve really talked about what happened. And she said it was good to see her, which...that’s good, right? Joan just has to believe that.

Joan Bright is a woman of many sins, and, one by one, she’s looking to atone for them.


	5. Life is a Story

It’s not uncommon for Sean to wake up from his mid-afternoon depression naps with some phrase from his dream still stuck in his mind. Usually it’s something nonsensical like, “That key goes in that drawer,” and fades from his mind before Sean even has a chance to ask which key and which drawer. But today, he wakes up with four words echoing through his head, crystal-clear and everpresent: “It’s not your fault.”

His next session with Dr. Bright is tomorrow, and he still hasn’t been able to say those four words out loud. He tried, once, but he only got as far as the first one before the rest caught in his throat.

That’s not to say he hasn’t been thinking about their session, though. In fact, he’s tried talking to his dad again, without Dr. Bright around. It probably didn’t feel like closure because someone else was there, watching him. Sean’s never exactly been good at feeling on-display. It’s why he’s an artist and not an actor. So Sean has been trying — in the very little private time he actually gets, usually at night once everybody is asleep — to speak with Dad again. He’ll curl up in his cot, squeeze shut his eye, and send himself back to his living room, same as before. He speaks softly and delicately, because God forbid anybody catch him babbling to his dead father like a maniac, and bares his heart.

He apologizes, a lot. Sean still can’t help but feel responsible for what happened. And even if he isn’t, and his dad’s death was really just a freak tragic accident that would have happened with or without his involvement, everything after that — everything he’s done since he picked up his unconscious brother and fled Seattle — those were all Sean’s decisions. So he’s not totally innocent, either.

But mostly he just tells his father how much he misses him, how he loves him and has only ever wanted to make him proud. These are the times he usually ends up breaking down and sobbing quietly into his pillow.

Sean spends so much time thinking about his dad at night, that it’s no wonder he’s been creeping into Sean’s dreams again. They feel a lot like that one he had while on the drive to Haven Point, the one where he came out to him, where Dad said he was proud of him. It’s stupid, but sometimes Sean really believes that dream was...real. That it was Dad actually speaking with him.

Maybe before meeting Dr. Bright, he could have dismissed that theory as wishful thinking, and, in fact, he had. But honestly, now that he knows that Daniel isn’t the only super-powered person out there, Sean’s world has expanded past infinity. Anything is possible now.

The specifics of the dream are kind of hazy, but he distinctly remembers Dad saying things that he knew his own self-deprecating brain would never cook up on its own. Things like, “I  _ am _ proud of you, my son,” and “I love watching you grow into the man you’re meant to be.”

Things like, “It’s not your fault.”

So yeah, Sean is pretty fucking convinced that his dad is contacting him from beyond the grave. Which is equal parts terrifying as it is comforting. Or maybe Sean’s a medium, and it was actually  _ him _ reaching out to Dad. Whatever the case, it’s just the push Sean needs.

Sitting up in bed and stretching the weariness from his muscles, he looks at the drawings he’s taped to the walls of his cell. His eye traces the outline of some of the sketches, figures of his friends and people he’s met over the last year, eventually landing on one he made a few weeks ago of Dr. Bright. She’s smiling at him encouragingly. Sean takes a deep breath.

“It’s —”

He’s interrupted by the sound of a sudden light clanging against the bars of his open cell, startling him. When he turns, there’s a guard standing in front of his cell, sticking his baton through the bars.

“Phone call for you, kid.”

# # #

Waiting in the meeting room for his session with Dr. Bright, the chains around Sean’s arms feel lighter, somehow. He almost believes he could lift them up and up and through the metal loop keeping him bound to the table. When Dr. Bright comes in, he grins up at her excitedly.

“Hi Sean,” she says, returning his smile. “How are you today?”

“Fucking great,” Sean says. “Your good news yesterday put me in such a great mood.”

“I’m glad,” Dr. Bright says, taking her seat. “But remember, it was just the motion for a retrial that was granted. We still have to actually go  _ through _ the trial.”

“I know, I know. But it’s still an exciting step.”

“That much I can agree with.”

The phone call wasn’t the only thing that put Sean in a good mood, though. Yes, that was a huge part of it, but as soon as the high from being told he could be going home soon wore off, he remembered his dream, and remembered his dad’s words, and what he had been about to say before the guard came to take him to the phone.

And okay, so he hasn’t been able to  _ actually _ work up the nerve to say it again, but he was about to, and that’s not meaningless. It just shows that Sean  _ does _ have it in him to forgive himself. Even if he can’t fully bring himself to do it on command.

Dr. Bright’s face lights up when he tells her this. “That’s wonderful, Sean. I’m very proud of the progress you’ve been making lately.”

“Thanks,” Sean says. “You know, I’m kinda proud of myself, too. Like, when I took that plea deal, I was feeling absolutely hopeless. Just — just fucking worthless. I wasn’t sure if I’d even make it the fifteen years I’d signed up for. But then you showed up, and...yeah, I don’t know. You’ve helped me a lot. Thank you, Dr. Bright.”

“You’re the one who’s been doing all the work,” Dr. Bright says. “I’m just guiding you down the right path.”

“So do you have any idea when my trial will be?”

“I do not. It might be a little while, or it may end up being next week. The American justice system is nothing if not consistently inconsistent.” 

Ain’t that the truth. Sean’s seen countless news articles of white dudes being acquitted for murders they  _ obviously _ committed, and the irony of reading these articles while sitting in his cell, locked away for something he did not do that the court clearly has no evidence for, is not lost on him.

“Venton will probably call you with an update when she gets one,” Dr. Bright continues. “From here on out, it’s in her hands. I can’t be involved in the case because it’s a conflict of interest.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

Dr. Bright snorts lightly. “No, I guess you’re right. I can’t help with any of the official proceedings, but I’ll be with you every step of the way, helping you work through the emotions that come from all of this. And trust me, there are going to be a LOT of emotions. You’re probably going to be confronted with some things you’ve been trying to avoid, some things that may trigger you. Do you feel you’re prepared to tackle those, or do you want to try working through some of that now?”

“Um,” Sean says. He hadn’t actually thought about how the trial would affect him, personally. All he could think about was the aftermath, getting to go home. He hasn’t even really let himself believe in the other possibility. And even if it all works out, Dr. Bright is right. There are a lot of demons in his past that he hasn’t really confronted. This trial could stir up some things in him that Sean has spent an entire year trying to shove down. But maybe that’s for the best. It’s probably not healthy to suppress those things.

Though, the middle of his own trial is probably not the best place to confront those demons head-on.

He and Dr. Bright work through some exercises, some things to do if he starts to feel a panic attack coming on. This isn’t anything new; they’ve been working on this since their sessions began, but they were mostly general anxiety tips.

“What do you think are some potential triggers that you might encounter during the trial?” Dr. Bright asks.

“They’re gonna be talking about him, about my dad,” Sean starts, “About him getting shot, and I’m going to have to relive that awful day. And they’re probably going to talk shit about him, say he deserved it, that he tried to attack the cop or something. And that’s...that’s going to make me really fucking angry.”

“That’s good that you recognize that about yourself. What do you think you can do to mitigate your reaction?”

“Not get mad?” Sean deadpans.

“Yes,” Dr. Bright chuckles. “That would be ideal. But how can you prevent yourself from getting angry?”

Sean goes through all of the techniques that he and Dr. Bright have covered in their sessions: deep breathing, thinking things through, it’s all stuff he’s heard before, even before he started therapy. Dad was always good about making sure Sean kept his anger in check. It really wasn’t until Dad died that his anger actually started becoming a problem, because he has so much more to be angry about now.

He has gotten better at controlling it, though, if only out of fear of more time in solitary confinement. Which, okay, is probably not the healthiest method of managing his emotions, but it can’t be helped at this point. Dr. Bright did tell him about how she chewed the superintendent out for putting him in there, and it made Sean respect and trust her that much more.

“So,” Dr. Bright starts, “tell me more about this morning, the revelation you had. How did it feel?”

“It felt...I don’t know. Different. Not really good or bad just, different. It felt like — like I had a book in my hand and lost my grip on it. It’s still there, it’s just on the ground now, and all I have to do is pick it back up. But I can either pick it back up and keep reading it, or put it back on the shelf, and…I don’t know which one I’m going to do yet.”

“It’s normal to feel uneasy about letting go of your guilt and grief,” Dr, Bright says. “And there’s nothing saying you have to. Forgiving yourself is not the same as letting go of guilt, and moving forward is not the same as letting go of grief.”

“What do you mean?” Sean asks.

“Take the example of the book that you used. Imagine that book represents your father, his entire life from beginning to end. Now, open that book and turn it to the last page, that would be the day he died. Pretend you’ve accidentally spilled coffee on the last page, and it’s blurred out some of the words. That represents your guilt, how you feel you had an impact on his death. But I’m sure that’s not the only mark you’ve left in that book. If you were to flip through the pages, I guarantee you would find doodles and drawings and notes in the margins, all of those are the ways you’ve impacted your father’s life. Now, you’re not going to throw away an entire book, one filled with so many cherished memories, over one coffee stain, are you?”

“No,” Sean says. “I guess not.”

“A book is more than its final page,” Dr. Bright says. “When you finish reading a book, do you immediately forget about everything you read before that? Do you enjoy it any less once it’s over?”

Sean thinks back to the books that Ellery recommended to him, in what feels like an entire lifetime ago. He enjoyed reading those books, the ones he actually got around to reading. It would be nice to be able to go back to a time when he could sit around and talk about fantasy books with one of his best friends. That may not be possible, but it doesn’t mean that the times he did spend with Ellery, discussing and theorizing and analyzing all of the different fantasy races and tropes and plots, are any less special to him.

“You also need to remember,” Dr. Bright says, “that  _ your _ book is still being written. What better way to honor your father’s story than by continuing your own?”

“Yeah,” Sean says. “Maybe you have a point.”

The story of Sean Diaz can’t end here, with him rotting in prison for something he didn’t do. If he really wants to make Dad proud, Sean has to live for more than this, for more than just Daniel. He’s got to live for himself, too.

“Now,” Dr. Bright says, “why don’t we work on some mindfulness exercises you can try when you feel yourself getting worked up during your trial?”

# # #

As Dr. Bright leaves the prison and becomes Joan once more, she feels herself starting to tear up a little bit. Sean has come such a long way from the bitter, angry kid he was when they first met. His smile no longer seems forced, and he’s opened himself to growing and changing. Joan always feels a sense of pride when she begins to see improvement in her patients, not in herself, but in them. 

Joan meant it when she told Sean that he was the one who did all the work. It takes effort to change, it takes dedication. Joan is just there to help guide her patients, keep them from straying, from losing hope. Other than that, they’re the ones who improve themselves, and Joan is just a bystander, watching them stand up and get back on the proverbial horse. She may offer an arm to grab onto, but they’re the ones who pull themselves up.

Joan is just about to pull away when she hears her phone going off from inside her purse. She fishes it out and sees a text message. Now, Joan is no stranger to text messages, obviously, but it’s not a facet of technology she partakes in regularly, instead preferring a phone call or e-mail. Most people know this about her, so she’s a little surprised to see it pop up. Even more surprising, it’s a message from Agent Flores.

_ Can you meet? Want to talk. _

_ Sure, _ Joan sends back.  _ When and where? _

The three dots that indicate Maria is typing something appear almost immediately under her reply, and soon after that, her message pops up, with an address to a coffee shop in downtown Seattle, at 8. It’s around 3 P.M. now, and her GPS says it’s about four hours to Seattle. She’s got a long drive ahead of her, and has no idea what’s waiting for her on the other end.

So she’d better get driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dudes, this story keeps evolving in ways I was not expecting lol. I keep being like, "Okay, I probably need just two more chapters. Then I'm done," and then I get like, seventeen ideas and thirty different things that need to happen and I'm like "Okay so maybe three chapters. Four? Five, but that is my absolute limit. SIX?" I can honestly say I have no idea how many chapter this will end up being. Might be three more, might be six more, might be even more! Who knows! Anyway hope you're enjoying it lol
> 
> Special thanks to skyfox986 for helping me get some ideas, and to newwayhome for helping with editing!!


	6. Life is Killing Me With These Titles, Man, For Real

With how nervous Joan is feeling, coffee is probably the last thing she needs right now. Still, the coffee shop Maria asked her to meet up at is quaint and inviting, one of those indie shops that often get run out of town by a Starbucks or Tim Horton’s, so she buys a large macchiato to support them, and sits at a small table in the corner, sipping at it absently while watching the front door like a hawk for any sign of a tall, attractive lady in a suit coat. It’s already pitch dark out, with only the streetlights illuminating the sidewalk outside.

When she finally does spot Maria, she signals to her, and smiles as Maria saunters over to join her. Maria slings her purse over her shoulder and hooks it over the back of the chair opposite Joan. “I’ll be right back,” she says, and a few minutes later returns with a tall cup of bitter-smelling black coffee, which is so like Maria.

“Thank you for meeting me.”

“Of course,” says Joan. “Though, I will admit, it is a little unexpected. What did you need to talk about?”

Maria takes a swig of her coffee, and scrunches her face up as she sets the cup back down. Joan never did understand why she continued to drink plain black coffee if she disliked the taste so much. “So I was contacted by Roy Drake this afternoon.”

“Roy Drake? The prosecutor for Sean’s case? What did he want?”

“He wants me to testify for him, Joan. To talk about all of Sean’s misdeeds, the ones that I’ve personally experienced.”

Joan’s brow furrows. She inhales deeply and lets it out into a small sigh. Taking another sip, she leans back in her chair. “So, are you going to do it?”

“If I don’t, they’ll just subpoena me,” Maria says. “I don’t want to, Joan, but I have no choice.”

“Sean is a good kid,” Joan argues. “We’ve been making such great progress, and...and I really do believe he’s innocent.”

“Between you and me, so do I. But that’s coming from Maria, not from Special Agent Flores. Special Agent Flores has to believe whatever her superiors tell her.” She scoffs. “Sometimes I think I’m not cut out for this line of work.”

“So why do you do it?” Joan asks.

Maria shrugs. “The pay is good, it helps support me, Alex, and  _ mamá _ . And it feels good when we actually  _ do _ end up helping people. But this whole thing, the Matthews case, the Diaz boys...it’s really opened my eyes to the flaws in the system.”

Joan mock-toasts with her cup. “Welcome to my world.”

“I wish I could be like you, Joanie. I wish I had the strength of will to change things from the inside. But that’s…” Maria sighs. “That’s just not possible.”

“Your eight-year old son controls the weather. Nothing is impossible.”

“Fair enough,” Maria laughs. It’s nice to get a smile out of her. Joan has missed that smile. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you, so you could prepare. I won’t perjure myself for Sean, but maybe you and Venton can find some way to poke holes in my testimony.”

“Is that really what you want?”

Maria looks down into her still half-full coffee cup, swirls it around in her hand. “I think it is,” she says. “You’re right, Joan. Sean is a good kid. And I want to help in any way I can, but...I can’t go against my superiors, and I can’t break the law. So I’m afraid this is the best I can do.”

“I appreciate it, Maria. I really do.”

Joan can see the effect all of this is having on Maria, from the way her eyes droop and her lips rest in a natural frown. The cognitive dissonance between what Maria knows is right and what she’s told to do must be taking an immense toll on her, and Joan can’t imagine what that’s like. Well, she can, to an extent, due to her history with the Atypical Monitors, but Joan has always felt she was able to stand up for her beliefs when the time called for it. To be so bound by duty must be an immeasurable weight to carry.

The two of them are quiet for a while, filling the uncomfortable air between them with sips of coffee and loud exhales. Maria refuses to meet Joan’s eyes, and Joan is just about to excuse herself and head home, when Maria says, “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“What?”

“Back then, when you...when I left you, why didn’t you come after me? Didn’t you care?”

“Of course I cared,” Joan says sternly. “How could you think I didn’t?”

“Because you never gave me a reason to think otherwise. If you really cared about me, why didn’t you try and make it up to me?”

Joan finishes the last of her coffee. There’s no way she’s sleeping tonight, anyway. “You were so angry, Maria. I knew I had broken your trust, and I didn’t think it could be repaired. I wanted nothing more than to make things right with you, but I didn’t know how, and I didn’t think you would be willing to let me.”

Maria sighs. “You’re probably right. I was...so angry at you. But...it would have been nice if you’d at least tried.”

“I’m sorry,” Joan says. “Really, I am. I’m sorry for letting Alex be studied by the AM, I’m sorry that I didn’t realize what they were up to sooner, and I’m sorry that I walked out on you. I only did so because I believed you deserved better.”

“Maybe I do, Joan,” Maria says. “But there’s nothing preventing you from  _ being _ better.”

Maria chugs the last bit of her coffee, cringing at the bitter taste, and stands up to leave. Joan wants to stop her, to assure her that she will be better, but deep down, she knows she can’t. Joan may be able to atone for the sins of her past, but she can never erase them. People don’t change so easily, and Joan Bright is no exception. So instead, she just watches as Maria tosses her coffee cup in the trash, nods to Joan in farewell, and heads out the door.

As soon as she’s gone, Joan sighs, drawing the attention of some of the other patrons. She ignores them, and slumps down in her seat, staring at the empty cup in front of her.

The coffee has Joan feeling wide awake now, so after taking one final sip and throwing it away, she pulls out her phone and dials the number for Allory Venton. It rings twice before she picks up.

“Hi, Allory, it’s Joan. Got a minute? There’s some things about Sean’s case we need to discuss.”

# # #

Even though Sean’s been dealing with anxiety since he was a kid, he still doesn’t really understand why. It’s not like his dad put all that much pressure on him to be perfect. Dad was happy with him just the way he was, at least, so he said. But ever since he was little, he’s always been trying to prove something. But...to whom? Himself? His dad? The world? Karen? He’s never felt like he was good enough, always been afraid of making the wrong choice, saying the wrong thing. It’s why he’s always had absolutely no game when it comes to girls.

And guys, but, well. That’s still more of a recent thing.

It makes sense that Sean would be anxious about his upcoming trial. It’s only about two weeks away, and every time he gets a sliver of hope, something snatches it away. Sometimes it’s just his own fucked up mind going, “but what if it goes wrong? What if you actually are guilty?” And sometimes it’s a call from his attorney telling him that Special Agent Flores will be testifying against him at his trial.

“I fucking knew she couldn’t be trusted,” Sean grumbles to Dr. Bright at their next session. “She always said she had my best interests at heart, that she wanted to help me, but I guess that was a fucking lie.”

“Sean, I don’t think —”

“Any time I think, ‘maybe things aren’t so bad, maybe things are finally starting to go my way,’ the universe decides to shove a rusty crowbar into my eye socket and scrape out my brains.”

“That was...graphic, but —”

“Who did I piss off in a past life to curse my entire existence like this? Did I forget to carry Madame Zeroni up the mountain or some shit? What did I do to fucking deserve this?”

“Sean, listen to me,” Dr. Bright says firmly. “You do  _ not  _ deserve all of this. Don’t let yourself believe that. You’ve made mistakes in your life, yes, and the cards have been stacked against you from the very beginning. But don’t ever, for one second, think that you deserve this.”

Sean lets out a defeated breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, and his anger dissipates, replaced with his usual self-pity. “I’ve done some fucked up shit, though, Dr. Bright,” Sean says. “I ran away from the cops, I stole shit, I’ve put Daniel in danger...so many times.”

“Everything you’ve done has been in an attempt to protect your brother,” Dr. Bright says. “You need to learn to forgive yourself, Sean. You’ll never be able to move forward if you’re still carrying all of this guilt.”

“How?” Sean asks. “I’ve...never been good at that.”

“Not many people are,” Dr. Bright says. “But that’s why I’m here, to give you the strategies to help you do so.”

“So...where do we start?”

“I’ve actually been doing some research on this lately.” Dr. Bright walks him through some techniques, some ways of starting down the right path. They all sound super lame, though.  _ Focus on how far you’ve come, stop negative thoughts when you notice them, allow yourself a re-do… _

“The human brain has a hard time distinguishing fact from fiction,” Dr. Bright explains. “If you visualize yourself doing something, your brain reacts the same way it would as if that were actually happening. We can use that to our advantage, and sort of trick our brains into changing its tune. Over the next week, I want you to think back to all of the things you’ve done that you regret, and I want you to imagine what you would have done differently. Pretend you’ve gone back in time, and you can change any of the decisions that you’ve made. How would things play out that way? Then I want you to write about it in a journal, think about what changed and why. What lessons have you learned from the experience?”

All of this is a lot easier said than done. Any time Sean tries to think back to his past, to the things he’s done, his chest starts to tighten around his heart and breathing gets difficult. And it’s hard for him to imagine him doing anything differently, because the memory is so locked in place. If he tried to change it, it probably would just throw reality back in his face.

But, well, maybe it’s worth a try.

“Why don’t we do a test run?” Dr. Bright suggests. “What’s one of the things you feel guilty about? Why do you feel you don’t deserve good things?”

The answer comes to him without hesitation. “Being a shitty brother to Daniel.”

“Can you be more specific?”

The fluorescent light above Sean stings his eye as he looks up and sighs. “Well, that day, I was getting ready for a party, and Daniel burst into my room. He was all excited about this fake blood he’d made for his Halloween costume, and he just wanted to show me, but I...I kicked him out and yelled at him and that’s why he went outside to play and…” Sean wipes his eye.

“So what would you have done differently, now that you have the benefit of hindsight?”

“Obviously, I would have just fucking humored him,” Sean says. “Just play with him for a few minutes so he’d be happy and leave me alone.” He sniffs. “God, why am I such a terrible fucking brother?”

“Sean?” Dr. Bright chides.

“Right, sorry. Stop negative thoughts when you notice them…”

Dr. Bright smiles at him. “Good, you are learning. Now, imagine yourself playing with Daniel.”

Sean can’t help but notice that he’s been doing a lot of closing his eye and thinking about shit that isn’t actually happening during his sessions, but he does it anyway. Suddenly, he’s back in his childhood room, talking to Lyla on his laptop. He can almost smell the familiar scent of his old house.

Then Daniel bursts in, excitedly chattering about his fake blood. Sean tries to put himself back into the mind of his sixteen-year old self (which still feels like thirty years ago), and he knows he still would have been super annoyed.

_ Daniel, what did I say about barging in my room? _

_ But I just wanted to show you… _

_ Ugh. Lyla, I’ll call you back. _

Dream Sean closes his laptop and fakes a smile for Daniel.  _ Alright, buddy,  _ he says,  _ tell me about this fake blood. Is that why I saw all that cornstarch and food coloring all over the kitchen counter? _

_ Yeah! _ Dream Daniel exclaims.  _ Pretty cool, huh? _

_ Really cool,  _ Sean says.  _ Is that for your costume? _

_ Uh-huh! You’re gonna go trick-or-treating with me this year, right, Sean? _

_ Of course,  _ enano _ ,  _ Sean says.  _ I’ll always make time for you. I’m getting ready for the party tonight, though. So how about we go a couple rounds on the Playbox, then I gotta get back to Lyla. Okay? _

_ Okay! _ Daniel says.  _ But I’m totally gonna beat your sorry butt! _

_ In your dreams, kid! I’ve been practicing. _

“Sean?”

Dr. Bright’s voice cuts through his reverie, ripping him back to the present. His chest keeps jerking, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. Man, that’s another thing he’s been doing a lot of in these sessions, though maybe that’s common for therapy.

“Yeah?” he manages to choke out.

“How did it go?”

Sean sniffs, but he’s smiling. “Pretty...pretty good actually. I...I was nice to him and he seemed happy. I mean, I know that was just me making him look happy in my mind but still…”

“How did things change?”

“Well, he didn’t go outside. So... _ everything _ changed. We played Playbox together, and it was...it was nice, actually.”

“So what can you take away from this experience? What did you learn?”

“Be nicer to Daniel?”

“And are you? Nicer to Daniel?”

“I mean, yeah, I’d say so. We fought a bunch of times on the road, but by the end we were pretty inseparable.”

“So would you say you’ve learned from that mistake?”

Sean hesitates. “I...I guess so.”

“You’re a human being, Sean. We all make mistakes. The important thing is that you’ve learned, and you’re growing from the experience.”

She has a point. Sean’s spent so long holding on to his guilt, feeling responsible for everything that’s happened, that it sort of became a part of him. He hasn’t been able to separate that from his own identity. He’s still not entirely ready to forgive himself — if anything this little experiment just proves that he could have done something differently, that if he’d just been a little better…

“I guess I learned my lesson too late,” Sean mutters. “If I’d just been able to be a better brother back then, then…”

“You can’t change the past, Sean,” Dr. Bright says. “But you can look to the future. Think about some times after your father’s death where you  _ were _ nice to Daniel. What would have gone different had you been rude or abrasive like before?”

Tugging at the chains binding his hands together, Sean thinks about this for a second. After Dad died, even though Daniel was getting on his nerves, he was being  _ super _ nice to the kid, buying him milkshakes and chock-o-crisps even though they were running really low on money, teaching him to skip stones, dancing with him at the motel…

“I guess,” Sean starts, “I guess if I hadn’t been nice to him, he could have found out about Dad sooner, maybe if I was being really shitty I would have just told him myself, and…” 

Sean looks up at the camera in the corner, like this one time would be different and they’re actually recording audio. These are the stupid things Sean worries about. 

He lowers his voice anyway. “Okay, so I’ve always had this theory that Daniel’s powers are influenced by his emotions. Like, when they first showed up it was because he was angry and sad about Dad getting shot, and the couple times they’ve really gotten out of control since then is because he was upset about something, like when he destroyed that motel room after seeing Dad on the news. I can’t help but think...what if he’d found out before that? What if the news was playing at that gas station and he lost control? He could have killed somebody. If he knew all the way back then, any little thing could have set him off. If I hadn’t been trying my hardest to keep him safe and happy...”

“Then I think it was important that you learned that lesson when you did. And this just shows that you  _ have _ learned that lesson. And I’m proud of you for that. It’s not easy to learn from your mistakes, especially when you’re still beating yourself up over them.”

Maybe Dr. Bright has a point. He’s still got a long way to go, probably, but maybe he’s on the right path. Maybe things actually can get better for him.

Maybe  _ he _ can get better.


	7. Life is Reflection

Sean struggles to adjust his tie in front of the mirror. He understands why he has to dress up for the court, but it still feels constricting, like the necktie will choke him if somebody so much as looks at him wrong. Plus, looking at his reflection in front of him, he looks...inconsistent. The sleeves on his charcoal-gray suit jacket hang down just past his fingertips (a hand-me-down from Stephen), and the eyepatch sort of negates any sense of professionalism the suit could have possibly given him. 

But it’s required, and Venton says making the effort will put him in the jury’s good favors. “The human mind is a fallible thing,” she said. “People take one look at a young man in a suit and think — there’s a good man, sturdy, has his life together. Whether it’s true or not makes no difference. All we need is for them to  _ believe _ it.”

It feels so nice to put on clothes that aren’t his jumpsuit for a change, even if it is an uncomfortable, ill-fitting suit with a strangling necktie. He’s so close to freedom, that Sean doesn’t care what it takes. He can’t shake the feeling that things will, as always, take a turn for the worse, but he tries to push that thought out of his head.

When Sean surrendered at the border, he thought he was doing the right thing. He still believes he did the right thing, in the moment. Standing up for Daniel, setting a good example for him, making sure he was safe...that was all that mattered at the time. But now, Daniel  _ is _ safe, he  _ is _ a good kid. Sean did the right thing for Daniel, and now it was about time to do the right thing for himself.

Back then, Sean was resolved to live with his decision. He was prepared to suffer through these fifteen years in silence. But then he met Dr. Bright, who, despite all odds, gave him hope again. Her name, false as it may be, is fitting, because — and Sean can’t believe he’s even thinking something so lame — she really has made Sean’s life just a little bit brighter.

Sean finishes fiddling with his necktie, and when he finally feels he looks presentable, there’s a knock at the door.

“How are you doing in there, Sean?” It’s Venton. “Almost ready?”

“Yeah,” he calls back. “I’ll be out in just a sec.”

Sean hears the staccato sound of her footsteps walking away, and takes one last look at himself in the mirror. He straightens out his suit coat, puts on a determined face and smiles at his own reflection. “Showtime.”

# # #

“Could you please state your name for the record?”

“Maria Elena Flores.”

“Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

From where Joan is sitting, Maria looks as calm and collected as ever. But if the conversation they had over coffee weeks ago meant anything, Joan knows she’s likely stressed and uncertain. Honestly, Joan is, too. From what Sean has told her, it was only after meeting Flores that his decisions started to veer towards the immoral. He didn’t trust her, and so, he acted out, doing what he thought was best. But Joan knows Maria. She may come off a little brash, but her heart’s in the right place.

Much like Joan’s had been.

“Ms. Flores, would you mind telling us a little bit about what you do?” 

Roy Drake, the prosecutor, is a tall, slender man with an expensive haircut, a well-tailored suit, and an attitude. From the moment he began speaking, Joan knew she didn’t like him, and that’s not just because the first words out of his mouth were, “Sean Diaz is a criminal.” Now, he’s standing up there, looming over Maria with a snide expression, like he thinks she’s on his side. Drake seems to be one of those men who thinks he’s already won, because he’s never tasted a real failure.

“I am a Special Agent for the Seattle Division of the FBI,” Maria answers.

“And what is the nature of your relationship to the defendant.”

“I was assigned to his case sometime in late 2016. He was apprehended in February of 2017, badly injured after an explosion on an illegal marijuana farm in the woods of Humboldt, California, upon which he was transferred to Sacred Hope Hospital and began recovery. Once he regained consciousness, I spoke with him on multiple occasions, trying to get the entire story from him.”

Drake continues to ask Maria questions, but it’s more like he’s grilling her, trying to squeeze every ounce of juice from her testimony. Of course he’s intentionally asking questions where he knows the answer will make Sean look bad. Joan glances over at Sean. He seems so nervous, unable to keep his hands still, pulling at his fingers. When he’d gotten a moment with his brother before the trial, he appeared so much calmer, like Daniel’s presence alone was enough to set his mind just a little more at ease. But now, he looks on the verge of a collapse.

“Ms. Flores, can you describe to us what happened the day Sean was cleared for discharge? He was to be transferred to Jolena Shore for arraignment, right?”

“That is correct,” Maria answers.

“However, he wasn’t arraigned until sometime in July of last year, is that correct?”

“Yes. He...slipped out of our supervision.”

“And how exactly did he ‘slip out,’ Ms. Flores? How far could one boy get on foot?”

“He hotwired a car from the parking lot and drove off.”

Maria answers everything matter-of-factly, trying to keep her face as devoid of emotion as possible. But even though she’s across the room from her, Joan can tell she’s struggling to keep it together. She truly does care about Sean, it seems, and having to say things that sully his image must be hard on her. Joan notices Sean slumping down in his seat with every one of Maria’s responses. Venton nudges him once or twice so he sits up.

“Now, Ms. Flores, why don’t you tell us a bit about what happened at the border?”

“The boys were apprehended at the border wall after being attacked by a pair of vigilantes. During questioning, Daniel somehow managed to escape and break Sean out of holding. This was all relayed to me after the fact. I wasn’t present for these specific events.”

“Then what did you experience, personally?”

“We set up a blockade at the border, and when they drove up, I used a megaphone to ask them to step out of the car. After a while, I saw the brothers hug in the front seat, and put their hands up. They got out of the car and were promptly arrested.”

“What do you think caused Sean to surrender in that moment? Is it possible he realized there was no escaping the truth? That he was guilty of murdering Kindred Matthews?”

Maria hesitates. She looks over at Sean, and Joan can see the pain of indecision in her eyes. Drake’s leading her testimony, trying to plant an idea into the jury’s head. Joan knows this. Maria knows this. But the judge says nothing, looks almost apathetic, as if she’s frustrated she has to even be here.

And if the judge won’t say anything about it, then it’s up to Maria.

“I don’t think that, no,” she says. Drake’s expression goes from cocky to confused, and people in the courtroom start murmuring amongst themselves. Maria clears her throat and continues, “I think something changed for him while he was on the run, and I think he decided to take responsibility for his actions. But I  _ don’t _ believe those actions involved killing Officer Matthews.”

Drake leans in and hisses something at Maria under his breath, and the judge calls him out for badgering the witness. Oh, of course,  _ now _ she cares. He sheepishly retreats. “No further questions, your honor.”

Sean sits up in his seat, and looks over at Venton. Even from behind, Joan can see the way his cheeks are curved upwards into a smile. Venton cautiously puts her hand up, as if to say, “Don’t get too excited just yet.”

Joan sits in awe at Maria’s courage. Had only Joan been that brave back then, when she knew there was something sinister brewing with the AM. If only she’d had the courage to speak out just like Maria had.

If only she had that courage now, the courage to want to change. That same bravery she’s seen blossoming within Sean these last few weeks. What kind of therapist would she be if she couldn’t take her own advice?

Venton tries to cross-examine Maria, but there’s not much to be done, since her testimony worked in their favor in the first place. She tries to poke holes in some of her statements, such as Sean’s escape from the hospital and from police holding, to little avail. There’s no denying that Sean did break the law in those situations. Still, Venton offers context behind these situations, most of which boils down to “Sean was trying to save his brother,” which seems to hit with some of the members of the jury, but not all.

The jury then calls its next witness, and Joan sees Sean go stiff in his seat as a boy, not much older than Sean himself, with a crew cut and a scar across the bridge of his nose, limps up to the stand. Sean starts trembling, and Venton slides him a bottle of water, which he shakily brings to his lips.

_ Breathe, Sean. Breathe. _ Joan tries to send Sean some kind of telepathic message, urging him to stay calm, but it doesn’t work. Instead, Venton simply puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

“Please state your name for the record?”

“Brett Foster.”

The name is familiar to Joan, though she’s likely only heard it once or twice. But judging from Sean’s reaction, there can be no doubt. This is the boy he fought with the day of the incident. This is the one he blames for everything going wrong.

This is the boy that started the worst day of Sean Diaz’s life.

# # #

The judge calls for a fifteen minute recess, which is good, because Sean really fucking needs it. The trial is barely half over, and Sean has already found himself on the verge of a panic attack. Sure, he’s kind of been in a constant state of anxiety since the trial began, but Brett Foster giving his testimony made his chest feel like it was caving in on him, and it made it hard for him to breathe. 

Venton kept offering him water, because yeah, hydrating is typically a good thing to do when you’re having an attack, plus it gives his hands something to do, except now he’s gone through three bottles of water and his bladder is about to explode, which is not exactly the easiest thing to sit through when you’re already freaking out over seeing the person who started this whole mess in the first place.

Sean is led out of the courtroom by one of the guards, whose name he remembers is Walton, which he thought was a cool name. He’s one of the guards that escorted him from the prison. Walton seems to understand Sean’s plight, and elects not to put the handcuffs on him for the short duration of the break.

Dr. Bright tries to catch Sean’s attention, but he has much more important matters to take care of. He pushes past her and beelines for the restroom, with Walton trailing behind and standing outside the door. Once he’s taken care of business, and is able to finally relax a little bit, he lifts up his eyepatch and splashes some water on his face. The chill of the water wakes him up from the perpetual state of nightmare he was living in just moments prior. 

Shit. That went bad. Not only was it triggering as fuck to see Brett’s face again, but the way he talked about the situation, the way he badmouthed Dad…

“He was just your typical illegal,” Brett said. “Came up here expecting to just take our jobs and shit. He was always super rude to my dad, too. Like one time he went over to ask him to turn down his music but he wouldn’t, so we had to call the cops on him.”

Brett’s testimony was nothing but manipulative half-truths that painted Dad as an entitled thug who thought he was owed whatever he wanted, none of which could be further from the truth. Hearing him say that shit about his family made Sean swell with rage. And what’s worse is that the jury seemed to believe him! Of course he would bring up the fact that he was an eagle scout to lend himself some credibility.

None of this was helped by the fact that simply seeing his face sent him straight back to that awful day. That’s what really spurred on his panic attack. Every word from Brett’s mouth was the bullet that killed Sean’s dad, piercing his skull again and again and again and — 

The door swings open as he’s drying off his face with a paper towel, and Daniel steps into the bathroom.

“Are you okay, Sean?” he asks.

God, it’s so good to see his face, even if it is wrought with concern. He and Daniel had managed to speak briefly before the trial, but it was mostly business, talk of his testimony and whatnot. It was nice to be there with him, though, to be able to hold his hand for more than ten seconds without the guards getting pissy.

Sean tosses the paper towel in the garbage and walks over to Daniel, squeezes his shoulder, then pulls him into a giant bear hug. Daniel hugs back, and Sean can tell by the shakiness of his breath that he’s trying not to cry. Sean’s in the same boat.

It feels a bit weird to be hugging so intensely in a courthouse restroom, but it doesn’t matter. Sean is just happy to be able to hug his brother again. If nothing else, this trial gave him the opportunity to do that.

After a while, Sean pulls away. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I’m okay. Just had to pee. How are you doing,  _ enano? _ You ready for your testimony?”

“I think so,” Daniel says. “But, um, that therapist lady said to come and find you. She wants to talk to you.”

Sean follows Daniel back into the hallway, where Dr. Bright is waiting, looking anxious.

“Is everything okay?” he asks her.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Dr. Bright says. “I noticed you looking a little shaky up there.”

Sean rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I, um...I think I started to have a panic attack. I got it under control.”

“Yeah, Venton mentioned that. It appears that boy is a trigger for you.”

Daniel gives Sean one last quick hug before going off to find Claire and Stephen, and Sean follows Dr. Bright around the corner into a more secluded area, where they can talk without being hounded by reporters or drowned out by the chatter of everybody else. With Walton hovering over them, though, they hardly need to worry about being approached. The man exudes intimidation. Sean is just happy Walton seems to have taken a liking to him.

Sean tells Dr. Bright, in a bit more detail, about what happened the day of the incident, what happened with Brett.

“He’s the entire reason all of this happened,” Sean says. “If it wasn’t for him being such a  _ fucking  _ asshole, I might still have a dad right now.” He sniffs, and wipes the tears from his face. “And he doesn’t even seem the least bit sorry. Going up there and playing the hapless victim, like me shoving him a little bit is somehow worse than losing the only person in the fucking world who was looking out for you, than having your entire life completely upended.”

Dr. Bright strokes her chin and gives Sean her full attention as he rambles about Brett. When Sean is finally finished, she gives him a second, which she usually does, to allow him a chance to say more if he thinks of something. But he doesn’t have anything else to say, so Dr. Bright says, “Sean, think back to one of the first things you said. ‘He’s the entire reason all this happened.’ Do you mean that?”

“Well, yeah,” Sean says. “He was being a fucking prick to my little brother, and he called him some ableist slur, which really pissed me off, and that’s how we got into the fight.”

“So, in other words,” Dr. Bright says. “Brett is the one at fault, and not you.”

Recognition crosses through Sean’s eye. His gaze drops to the floor and he starts rubbing his arm. “I mean, not...entirely. I still shoved him.”

“ _ But… _ ” she prods.

Sean groans. “Yes, I get it, Dr. Bright, it’s not my fault. Thanks.”

He may have only said it as a snide remark, but that actually  _ was _ the first time he’s said that out loud. And even though he didn’t actually mean it, it still feels like a wave has washed over him. He said it. Which means he’s one step closer to believing it.

“Dr. Bright, be honest with me,” he says. “Is it bad? Is...Am I going to lose?”

“I don’t know, Sean. That Foster kid might have made you look guilty, but Maria’s testimony definitely seemed to help—”

“Yeah, wasn’t expecting that. I thought she — wait, Maria? Since when are you guys on a first name basis?”

Dr. Bright’s face turns beet red, and Sean knows immediately what that means. He smirks. “Damn, Dr. Bright, you and Flores?”

“I-it’s not like that,” Dr. Bright stammers. “Our relationship is strictly professional.”

“Sure, sure,” Sean laughs. But then that laugh turns into a relieved sigh. His heart rate seems to finally have returned to normal, at least. “Thanks, Dr. Bright.” He brings her in for a hug.

“This is entirely unprofessional,” Dr. Bright mutters, but she hugs him back.

Sean breaks the hug and makes a show of taking a deep breath. “Time to get back in there,” he says. “Thanks again, Dr. B.”

“Of course, Sean. I’ll be with you the whole way.”

Sean heads off to find Venton. The prosecution’s time is done, now it’s Venton’s turn to make her argument. And for his own sake, Sean hopes it’s a good one.


	8. Life is Darkest Before the Dawn

With her conversation with Sean still echoing in her mind, Joan enters the courtroom to find a seat for the second half of the trial. The one she had been sitting in before was now taken, so she scans the room for another one, and spies an open seat next to Maria.

Would it be weird to sit next to her? They still haven’t spoken since their coffee shop meet-up, and Joan is worried she’s missed her window. She  _ wants _ to try and make things right again, but she’s unsure if Maria would be willing to let her.

But she remembers being inspired by Maria’s courage to speak up, and it reminded her of all the reasons she was drawn to Maria in the first place. Her strength of will, her conviction, her dedication. She made Joan want to do better, _be_ better.

And she remembers the conversation she just had with Sean, where he finally admitted the incident wasn’t his fault. Sean has made so much progress since they started seeing each other, and his willingness to change leaves Joan brimming with pride in him.

Maria stood up for what she believed in. Sean found the strength to push forward. If they can do it, then, damn it, Joan can do it, too.

“Hey,” Joan says, catching Maria’s attention as she walks up beside her. “Is this seat taken?”

It’s slight, but Joan is convinced she catches the glimpse of a smile. “Nope, it’s all yours.”

Joan takes the seat. She definitely feels the tension between her and Maria, but she’s taken the first step. Breaking down the walls may take time.

“Good job,” Joan says, “with your testimony, I mean. I...it takes guts to do what you did.”

Maria shrugs, keeping her attention focused forward. “I just wanted to wipe that smug look off of pretty boy’s face. Everything I said up there is true. I don’t think Sean is guilty.”

“Well, I’m proud of you nonetheless,” Joan says. “Sorry if that’s weird of me to say.”

Maria cracks a half-smile. “Not at all. Thank you, Joan.”

Venton and Sean enter the room, followed at a distance by Drake, who take their places at their respective desks. The judge calls for order in the court and hands the floor over to Venton. As Venton is calling Sean’s brother to the stand, Maria nudges Joan and whispers, “Hey, after the trial, did you want to grab dinner or something?”

Joan takes this as a peace offering. “I would love nothing more.”

# # #

Sean can’t help but notice that, while he’d seemed a little nervous during the recess, Daniel looks a lot more confident as he takes the stand. He’s absolutely adorable in his blue button-down dress shirt, tucked messily into his dark slacks. A dash of anxiety splinters into his smile, but that’s to be expected. He’s a ten year old kid, sitting in front of a large group of people, battling for Sean’s life. Of course the kid would be a little nervous. Sean tries to give him an easygoing smile to calm his nerves, but he’s not paying attention.

Venton speaks slowly and calmly with him. She asks a couple standard questions: “What is your relationship like with Sean? Did you two get along before the incident? How has being on the run together affected your relationship?” Daniel answers them all without hesitating, like he’s been waiting for this his whole life.

And...Sean is so fucking proud of him. When the two of them left Seattle that day, they were both kids, innocent, naïve, unwitting to the world of injustice that awaited them. Daniel, especially, was this wide-eyed kid who kept getting Sean into trouble. But now, he’s sitting up there, looking all professional in an outfit that Claire and Stephen no doubt got for him, telling the whole court about their time on the run. And he only flinches once, when he shares the story of his time in Haven Point.

When he’s finished, even the judge is getting a little teary-eyed. Venton flashes Sean a smirk. This one definitely worked in their favor.

But then Drake goes up for his cross-examination. Which seems super unfair to Sean, Drake getting to press a ten-year old kid for information. It just doesn’t sit well with him, especially when Sean catches the vindictive smile Drake wears as he approaches the bench.

First, Drake asks Daniel a bunch of questions similar to the ones Venton asked him, likely in an attempt to get him to contradict himself, but Daniel’s a good kid, so he doesn’t lie, and all of his stories line up. Drake then asks him to go over what happened that day in Seattle, as if they hadn’t established enough times what had happened.

Daniel looks visibly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and rubbing the back of his neck. He recounts the situation once more. “...then Sean came out to defend me, which was super cool of him because otherwise, I think Brett was actually gonna hit me, but then...it, um...it all gets kind of foggy after that.”

Drake pauses, lets it sit, makes it look like he’s thinking really hard about something. “Now, you say you don’t remember much about the accident. But is that really the case?”

Daniel narrows his eyes. “Um...yeah?”

“Daniel — is it alright if I call you Daniel?”

“I mean, it’s my name, so knock yourself out.”

Sean has to stifle a laugh, but Venton gives him the stink-eye, so he pantomimes zipping his lips shut. Drake looks displeased with Daniel’s answer.

“Do you know what perjury is, Daniel?”

“You know, actually, I think I would prefer if you called me Mr. Diaz.”

Even Venton can’t hold back her laughter on that one. Sean notices a couple members of the jury chuckling along, too. Drake, however, has creased his brow and is glaring daggers at Daniel. He puts his palms together and takes a deep breath.

“ _ Mr. Diaz _ ,” he grits. “Are you familiar with perjury?”

Daniel crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s when you lie in court. I don’t see what that has to do with me, though.”

“Daniel, did you or did you not lie to the court today?”

“I told you my name is Mr. Diaz, and no, I did not.”

Drake mutters something under his breath and rolls his head back, groaning in frustration. The judge gives him a look, and tells him to, quote, “get ahold of himself.” Drake closes his eyes and narrows his lips into a tight, forced smile. Sean notices some of the jury rolling their eyes at him.

Daniel just sassed the prosecutor into harming his own case. What a legend.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Diaz here is nothing more than a petulant child. If he’s not going to take this testimony seriously, I don’t see why you should, either. He clearly has no regard for courtroom etiquette. It’s almost like this is a game to him.”

Daniel flinches. “Hey! That’s not true,” he says. “Sean’s life isn’t a game! He’s not just someone for you guys to play around with. He’s…” 

Sean catches Daniel trying to make eye contact with him. He lets his eye meet Daniel’s, and the bond between the two of them is almost visible, like a ribbon connecting their two hearts. 

“He’s my most favorite person in the whole world. The only reason I’m even here right now is because of him. If it weren’t for Sean, I...I might be dead, or worse, still stuck in that...that cult in Nevada.”

Drake blinks. He trips over his words as he tries to get back on track, but he’s obviously shaken. One moment he appears to be in control, and the next he’s listening to the witness he was trying to discredit captivate the hearts and tear ducts of the jury. Bringing Daniel’s feelings towards Sean into question was clearly a mistake, because there’s nothing stronger than the bond of the wolf brothers. And Drake looks like the kind of guy who’s never made a mistake before.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to continue cross-examining Daniel, but Drake’s confidence is shot. Without any effective way to proceed, he hands the floor back over to Venton and trudges back to his chair, defeated.

While Venton’s arguments from here on out seem to be going smoothly, Sean is still nervous. He elected not to testify, himself, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his cool if Drake started antagonizing him, like he did with Daniel, so they’re entirely reliant on other testimonies. She calls up one of Sean’s old neighbors to testify that the gunshot and the explosion happened immediately one after the other, which she uses to argue that Sean couldn’t have caused the explosion.

“Esteban Diaz was shot mere seconds before the explosion that caused the destruction of Lewis Avenue.” Venton’s voice is clear, determined, and strong. Her face is a blank canvas, creased with confidence. She turns her attention back to the witness. “Now, Ms. Donne, where do you think a sixteen-year old boy would get enough explosives to cause that much damage in a matter of moments?”

Ms. Donne timidly leans forward and speaks into the microphone. “Um...I don’t know.”

“Precisely,” Venton says. “It would be nearly impossible to obtain explosives of that caliber in such a short amount of time.”

Drake slams his hands down on the table and pushes himself up. “Objection, your honor. The defendant could have had them on him before the murder.”

“Sustained.”

“Actually, Drake, I’m glad you asked,” Venton says, flicking her index finger in his direction. “If Sean had brought explosives out with him to kill Officer Matthews, that would imply premeditation, would it not? However, my client is not on trial for first degree murder.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we bump the charge up to first degree,” Drake says.

“Not at all, but even so, my client would not be guilty.” Venton clasps her hands behind her back and steps away from the witness stand. “The prosecution’s entire case hinges on the fact that Sean has a very strong motive for the homicide. And that much is true — somebody killing your father directly in front of you is a particularly strong motive for a second degree murder, a crime of passion.”

Sean can’t help but wince at the mention of his dad, but he tries to compose himself.

“However, for this murder to have been premeditated, Sean would have needed a motive  _ prior _ to the incident. Sean and Officer Matthews had never interacted before this moment, and more importantly, Officer Matthews hadn’t shot and killed Esteban Diaz in front of his two young sons. So we’re left with a paradoxical conundrum here; if Sean has the motive, he has no means, and if he has the means, he has no motive.”

The jury seems to take this to heart, which puts Sean a little bit at ease, only helped further by Venton’s confident and carefree smile as she returns to his side. Drake goes up for his cross examination, and Sean is convinced there’s no way he can puncture this argument.

But if there’s one thing Sean has learned over the last year and a half, it’s that when you’re confident things will turn out one way, they usually take a turn for the worse.

“Ms. Donne, you’ve lived behind the Foster’s residence for quite a while now, correct?”

“Yes, we moved there while I was pregnant with my first son, about 15 years ago now.”

“As an objective third party, what would you say the relationship was like between the defendant and the Foster’s son, Brett?”

“Not particularly great. I heard them fighting quite a bit, especially once they were both teenagers.”

“Would it be reasonable to say that the defendant had very strong negative feelings towards Brett Foster?”

“Oh, most definitely. I’ve had to ask them to stop shouting many times.”

“So is it possible that the defendant’s feelings towards the Foster boy would be so strong, that he could have, on that day, brought out a set of explosives, intending to kill Brett Foster? And that, upon witnessing Officer Matthews shooting his father, he became enraged and decided to use them to kill Officer Matthews, instead?”

“What?!” Sean clasps his hands over his mouth. He hadn’t meant to shout like that, but the idea that Drake is proposing is absolutely preposterous. Sure, he hated Brett, probably more than he had ever hated anybody in the entire world until that point, but he would never have even  _ dreamt _ of killing him.

Sean is not, has never been, and never will be a murderer. If only it was that easy to prove to a jury.

Venton objects, on the grounds that Sean isn’t on trial for attempted murder of Brett Foster, but is overruled. Drake sneers at Venton as he concedes and returns to his desk, and Sean slumps down in his seat.

When Sean glances over at the jury, he sees them chattering amongst themselves. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but some of them keep glancing over at him out of the corner of their eyes, only to snap their heads forward when they’re caught looking. He hopes he doesn’t look too angry, despite the fact that he kind of wants to rip Drake’s throat out. Metaphorically, of course.

Fuck.

This can’t be good for their case.

Venton tries to steer the narrative away from that possibility as she calls up other witnesses to propose alternative theories: a police officer to confirm that officers confiscate explosives fairly regularly, and it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for Matthews to have had one on his person that reacted to the gunshot; a city inspector to propose the idea that a gas leak could have triggered an explosion when Dad was shot. All of them seem to be valid theories, and if Sean were on the jury, he would claim that it established reasonable enough doubt. Of course, Sean is also a bit biased towards his own case, so maybe that’s not the best example.

After all is said and done, each side gives their closing arguments, and the judge calls a recess as the jury deliberates. After handcuffing Sean, Walton leads him out into the hallway, and stands over him. Sean sits down at one of the benches, and Daniel joins him. With his thoughts racing, Sean starts shaking with anxiety, and Daniel hugs him tightly, as if he can juice the worries from his mind.

“It’s gonna be okay, Sean,” he says. “I know it will.”

“Thanks,  _ enano _ ,” Sean says. “I just...I’m so close, I don’t know what I’ll do if we don’t win.”

“Just have faith,” Daniel says. “We all know you’re innocent, and I’m sure the jury will, too.”

The more Sean thinks on it, the more freedom seems like a pipe dream. Sure, he’s got the truth on his side, but Drake is manipulative, conniving, and privileged. The average person is far more likely to believe him than the Mexican thug with an eyepatch. Venton tried to curate the jury as best she could, but the justice system is so unbelievably fucked that he could end up right back where he started.

And that fucking terrifies Sean.

Claire and Stephen bring the boys some Wendy’s, and Sean’s low blood sugar is eternally grateful. He wharfs the greasy food down faster than he’s ever eaten anything in his life. After six months of nothing but bland prison food, a fast food burger is like a fucking godsend. And he hasn’t dipped a fry in a Wendy’s Frosty in  _ so _ long.

Two hours pass, and it does nothing to ease Sean’s anxiety. He knows that two hours isn’t considerably long for a jury deliberation, especially for a high-profile murder case, but damn it, what the hell is taking them so long? Do they think he’s guilty or not? At this point, it’s the not knowing, the waiting for the other shoe to drop, that’s driving Sean insane.

“I think I need to get some air,” he says, cutting Daniel off in the middle of trying to keep Sean calm by telling him stories about his new Beaver Creek friends. He turns to Walton. “Is that okay?”

Walton looks down at him, his face unreadable, and nods. 

“Okay,” Daniel says, getting up with Sean and starting to follow him. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sean says. “I...kind of want to be alone.” His eye darts over to Walton, who’s already leading him by the arm. “Well, as alone as I can be, anyway.”

Honestly, what he really wants is a fucking smoke. Obviously he wasn’t able to bring any with him, but maybe he can bum one off of somebody outside. Due to the nature of Sean’s case, the front is swarming with reporters, so Sean asks Walton if they can go out the back. 

Thankfully, the back is empty, just overlooking a parking lot. Walton stands motionless a few feet away from him, like he’s trying to give Sean the privacy he so desperately craves. A pair of guards stands a few yards away, probably making sure no paparazzi is getting through, but other than them, they’re completely alone.

Unfortunately, that also means that there’s nobody to ask for a cigarette, so Sean just takes a deep breath of the fresh, non-tobacco-ridden air, and sighs. He kind of wants to sink to the ground, lean his back against the wall and bury his head in his knees, but he knows better than to rough up his suit, when appearances matter more than anything. 

How did his life get so fucked up? It was less than two years ago that he was just a normal 15-year old kid, going to school, worrying about a summer job, trying to get a girl to like him. Now he’s on trial for murder. Who could have seen that one coming? Thinking back to his old life almost makes him want to cry.

Even if the trial goes well, even if he’s exonerated and he can go live with Claire and Stephen, things will never go back to the way they used to be. Whether he’s found guilty or not, his dad is still dead, he’s still half-blind, and his psyche is still irreparably damaged. Sean Diaz will forever be a broken husk of a man.

Without letting his suit coat touch the brick, Sean leans his head back against the wall, and lets the final light of the day wash over him as the sun begins to disappear over the horizon. He’s been here all day, and the exhaustion is finally starting to creep in. He closes his eye, and he could almost fall asleep like this. That is, until the back door to the courthouse opens, and he has to open his eye and turn his head to see who it is.

“Daniel said I would find you out here,” Dr. Bright says, stepping past Walton and leaning against the wall next to Sean.

“I just needed some air,” Sean says. “Did the jury finish deliberating?”

Dr. Bright sighs. “No. They’ve been sequestered, actually.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they’re going to spend the night deliberating, and you’re going back to your cell until tomorrow.”

Sean whimpers. “God damn it.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Sean.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Hopefully it’ll be my last night there.”

“How are you feeling about that?”

The sun has almost completely set at this point, and Sean’s starting to get cold. Spring is just beginning to bloom, but the mid-March nights can still leave him feeling chilly. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’m nervous, I guess. And scared.  _ Really  _ fucking scared. I don’t want to go back to prison. I...I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

“Yes, you will, Sean,” Dr. Bright says. “You’ve made incredible progress over the three months we’ve been seeing each other. If we keep our sessions going, I believe wholeheartedly that you would be able to make it through your sentence.” She looks up, gaze fixed on the moon beginning to rise in the clear, dark sky. “But let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Yeah.”

Walton’s walkie-talkie buzzes, informing him of the jury sequester. “Okay, kid, time to go,” he says.

Sean pushes himself off the wall and steadies himself, which is still kind of difficult with his impaired vision, even after nearly a year of being a cyclops. Dr. Bright squeezes his shoulder and offers him an encouraging smile as he follows Walton back into the building. 

On the ride back to the prison, Sean feels his heart sinking further and further into his stomach. The thought of seeing his cell again, of being trapped in those four walls, terrifies him. But it’s reality now, not just a possibility. The only uncertainty that remains is whether or not he’ll be back in his cell tomorrow night.

Sean is not a religious person. He doesn’t even believe in a god, but tonight, he’s going to pray to every single one of them for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, almost forgot to update today! Sorry for the late update. Thus brings an end to the Trial of Sean Diaz. But what will the verdict be? Ooooooh, guess you'll just have to wait until next week to find out (unless you're reading this after the fact in which case you can just continue on to the next chapter haha)
> 
> Anyway, I'd like to thank my wonderful betas El_Bracco and newwayhome, for helping me edit this chapter, and the previous one. They gave me some insanely good feedback and this story is all the better for it. Thanks again, my friends!!


	9. Life is Bright

When Sean was first arrested, the handcuffs weighed him down. The cold, harsh metal would scrape and dig at his skin, leaving his wrists raw and ragged. They used to leave a mark that would sting his wrists even once they were removed. Whenever he wasn’t in cuffs, it always felt like only a temporary escape until the next time he would be locked to himself, unable to move his hands in a natural way.

But in the eight months since then, the handcuffs have melded with his identity, become part of his routine, particularly once he started seeing Dr. Bright, and had to be cuffed and led to their appointment room every week. They no longer cut at him, as if you can build up a tolerance to metal wristwear. Today, in particular, they feel like they’re a part of him, an extension of his own body. 

Sean always thought that when he got to that point, when the handcuffs started to feel natural on his wrists, that that would be when he was totally beyond saving, that everything Sean Diaz once was would be no more, replaced by a cold, empty shell who merely goes through the motions necessary for survival. But that’s not how it is at all. Instead he feels freer than he has in a long time.

The door buzzes, and Dr. Bright steps into the room, with a fake smile plastered over her face. Sean can tell she’s just trying to look positive for him, and even though he can see right through it, he appreciates the effort.

This is their first session since the trial, and if you had told Sean two weeks ago that he would be having another therapy session at Washington State Penitentiary, he would have felt utterly defeated. If you’d told him that he would actually be in a good mood, he probably would have punched you in the face and called you a liar.

“Hi, Dr. Bright,” Sean says. “How’s it going?”

“Hi, Sean,” Dr. Bright says cautiously. She sits down and pulls out her notebook and pen. Sean never really understood why she needs that in the first place, since he’s hardly ever seen her actually write on it. “How are you doing?”

“Honestly? Pretty good.”

Sean tells Dr. Bright about his week, how he spent most of it sketching. Since the border, he hadn’t been drawing all that much. Sure, he would still draw, because it’s his favorite thing to do and one of the only things keeping him sane in here, but a lot of the time, he wouldn’t have the energy, so instead he would just lay on his cot and think about drawing. But since the trial, his sketchbook has since been completely filled out, and he had to use his phone call for the week to call Daniel and ask him and Claire to send another one.

“I’m glad to hear you’re getting back into your passion,” Dr. Bright says. “What kind of things have you been drawing?”

“A lot of it’s been just kind of general doodles, a couple ideas for a comic series about a superpowered wolf that have been floating around in my head, but…” He thinks back to the drawing he did earlier this morning. “I drew my dad today.” Dr. Bright says nothing, but her smile turns more sincere, and it pushes him to continue. “It’s...probably the first time I’ve drawn him since...since he died.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m glad you’ve been able to start processing your grief and channeling it through your art.”

“Yeah, I think it was too painful before, y’know? Like, I kinda drew him once around New Year’s last year, it was this picture of me, him, and Daniel watching the ball drop on TV, but it was a back view of him and I crossed him out because, well...he wasn’t there. And thinking about that hurt too much. But today, I just...I don’t know. I woke up with a clear picture of him in my mind, smiling as always, and I was just like, ‘I have to draw that.’ And so I did. And it’s probably some of my best work, I’m really proud of it.”

“I’m sure your father would be proud, too, Sean.”

Sean hopes the lump in his throat isn’t obvious as he swallows it. “Thanks, Dr. Bright.”

“How are you coping with the results of the trial?” she asks.

Sean knew this would come up sooner or later. He’d hoped to avoid it, because there really isn’t much else to say about it. Anything she could think of for how he’s feeling is probably accurate. There’s a lot of shit swirling around in Sean’s head these days. But not all of it is bad shit.

“Honestly, I think I’m okay,” he sighs. “I’m...alright, I’m honestly really bummed that I have to miss Daniel’s birthday next month, especially ‘cause it’s his golden birthday, 11 years old on the eleventh. But it’s okay. There will be other birthdays. I’m just happy I’ll get to be there for the rest of them.”

“That’s a good way of looking at it,” Dr. Bright says. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you out of here sooner.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Sean says. “You and Venton did the best you could. It sucks that I’ll have to turn 18 in here, but really, I can make it another eight months. I think having such a clear finish line ahead of me will make it easier to get through.”

“That’s good, Sean. Having a positive attitude can do wonders in times like this. But is there anything about the situation that you feel negatively about? Anything you would like to bring up with me?”

Sean shifts in his seat, absently tugging at the cuffs around his wrist. “I guess,” he says. “Like, it’s cool that I get to go home, but...am I really? What I’m coming home to is completely different from what I had before. Even if I’m no longer in jail, my dad is still dead, I’m still missing an eye, and me and my brother still...went through all of that shit. I know that there’s nothing I can really do about it, which is why I’m trying to focus on the good shit, but...it sucks, man. It just really sucks.”

“I understand,” Dr. Bright says. “It’s incredibly unfair everything that you boys have had to go through. But it’s happened, and you can’t change that. The scars of your trauma may remain, but even they will fade with time. The wounds you’ve suffered will be but a distant memory.”

“Yeah, I can hope,” Sean says. “But really. I’m...I’m doing okay. At least I actually deserve this sentence. Fifteen years for a murder I didn’t commit was really unfair, but sixteen months for grand theft auto? Yeah, that I can handle. I actually committed this crime. Plus, I mean, that’s another eight months of government-funded therapy from you.”

Dr. Bright taps her pen to her chin and tsks. “Yeah, actually, about that. I’m afraid now that your trial is over I’m going to have to start charging you for each session. It’s approximately $1250 a week, with insurance, is that okay?”

Sean stares at her, dumbfounded. “Wh—wait, you’re not serious are you?”

A smile cracks Dr. Bright’s lips. “Of course not,” she laughs. “I’m teasing you. Everything’s being covered for you by Maria.”

“Oh wow, that’s really generous of her. How are you two doing, by the way?” Sean asks, a smirk creeping onto his face, laughing as a blush spreads across Dr. Bright’s cheeks.

“We’re...fine,” she says. “We talked a bit after the trial. She and I are...we’re on the right path, I’d say. But that’s not really your business.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sean concedes. “But you know we’re well past the normal doctor-patient relationship.”

“That’s very true.” Dr. Bright smiles at him. “Now, why don’t we talk a bit more about this drawing of your father? What kind of feelings did it bring up?”

# # #

It’s been eight months since Sean has properly had to deal with the cold. Having lived in Seattle for basically his entire life, Sean should be used to the chill. But in actuality, while he doesn’t mind cold weather inherently, he’s not particularly good at regulating his body temperature. Those months they spent in the cabin, while still some of Sean’s fonder memories of their days on the run, were hell. With the fire burning, it wasn’t so bad, but he still had to bundle up with his hoodie and socks on and make himself into a blanket burrito just to stay warm.

So, the first thing to hit him upon stepping outside of the prison gates being a sharp gust of November wind isn’t exactly his favorite thing in the world. Sean tries not to take that as a sign of things to come. Thankfully, Daniel is here with Claire and Stephen, and Karen, which is a bit of a surprise. She came all the way up from Arizona for him?

Maybe she thinks it’ll make up for leaving. Maybe it almost does.

The second Sean is clear of the gates, Daniel tackles him with a hug and gives him his  _ Wolf Squad _ hoodie.

“Thank you,  _ enano _ ,” Sean gasps, slipping the tattered sweatshirt over his head. “I was freezing.”

Lyla is here, too, and it is so good to see her face. She was at the trial, but they didn’t get much of a chance to talk with him being handcuffed and escorted around by Walton. They smile at each other for a second before colliding into a massive hug.

“I’ve missed you so damn much, Sean,” she says into his shoulder.

“Me too, Lyla. Best freakin’ fighters forever.”

“Hell yeah, dude.”

The six of them all go out to lunch—Sean’s first real meal since the Wendy’s Claire brought him the day of his trial. It’s Sean’s pick, since it’s  _ his _ big day and all, but Sean’s not looking for anything fancy (anything is fancy after a year and a half of prison slop), so they end up at a local diner, where Sean and Daniel end up splitting a strawberry milkshake.

“This reminds me of the diner we stopped at on our first day on the road,” Daniel says. “We got milkshakes then, too.”

“Oh yeah,” Sean says. “I remember that now. That milkshake was  _ so good. _ ”

“What...exactly happened to you guys out there?” Lyla asks from the seat next to him. “I mean, I know you’ve told me some things but...how did you guys manage?”

Sean dips a french fry into his milkshake, and chews on the end before responding. It creates a slight tension in the air, like Lyla’s scared she asked something too personal or made him uncomfortable. And Sean will admit, thinking back to his time on the run with Daniel is still kind of painful, but Dr. Bright says it’s important not to repress the painful memories, and instead work through them.

And so the floodgates open. Daniel finishes most of the milkshake, because Sean is too busy relaying some of the details—both good and bad—of their story. He makes sure to take his time talking about some of the harder moments, like his encounter with the Stampers, the heist, and getting beat up by a racist shithead in the middle of the Nevada desert (though he doesn’t use quite so strong of language with Claire and Stephen sitting at the other end of the table). The whole time, Lyla watches, captivated and concerned. 

When he’s finished, he sits back in his seat and sighs, like he’s no longer carrying the world upon his shoulders. 

Dr. Bright would be proud. Hell,  _ he’s _ proud.

“God, Sean, that sounds terrible,” says Lyla.

“It was.” Sean shrugs. “But there were some good moments, too. Daniel made a friend in Beaver Creek, and I kissed—” He cuts himself off, glances over at Claire.

Okay, so here’s the thing: he hasn’t actually  _ told _ Claire that he kissed Finn, that he’s...bi. Hell, he hasn’t even told Daniel about that last part. He kind of figured, with everything going on, that choosing a label was kind of irrelevant. And now that he has—and yeah, that label really fits for him—he’s not sure how she’ll react. Claire, that is. Probably Stephen, too. He has no qualms about telling Lyla, but telling her in front of his conservative grandparents is probably not something he wants to do on his first day out.

Thankfully, he doesn’t need to backpedal his own comment, as the waitress chooses that moment to give them the bill. Both Claire and Karen reach for it at the same time, and end up bumping hands.

“I got this,” Karen says.

“No, I insist.”

“I can handle the bill, Mom. It’s fine.”

A moment of tension passes between their eyes, and Sean tries to break it up by suggesting they split the bill. In the end, that’s what they decide to do.

Sean and Lyla hug good-bye as the group exits the restaurant, before she returns to her own car to head back to Seattle. “You’d better text me,” Lyla says, one foot already stepping into the driver’s side door.

“You’ll be the first person I text as soon as I get a new phone.”

“Good. See you ‘round, loser.”

Sean can’t help but smile as she drives off. After all this time—running away for a year and being locked away for another—their friendship is stronger than ever. Even separated, they’re still inseparable.

“So, what’s the plan now?” Karen asks, placing a hand on Sean’s shoulder.

Over the last few weeks, Sean had talked with Claire and Karen about what he would do when he got out of prison. He’s 18 now, legally an adult, so he has the freedom to choose his own way, which feels good. It’s like, not only is he free, but he’s  _ free. _ Claire offered to let him stay with them, of course, and it would be nice to be with Daniel again, but…

Karen also offered to let him stay with her in Away, with there even being talk of getting him his own trailer. The sense of freedom that would lend him, having his own place and his own life, sounds good. Really good. But it would also involve being far from Daniel. And is he really ready to let Karen back into his life in such a major way?

Sean glances over at Daniel. He’s standing between Claire and Stephen, who each have a hand on his shoulder. Even though he looks kind of melancholy, the three of them are like the portrait of a traditional family. As much as he loves Daniel, and wants to be in his life, Sean doesn’t think that kind of structure is right for him. At least, not in the long-term.

“I think I need to cut my own path,” Sean says. “But…” His eye darts between Karen and Claire. “I can’t do that on my own.”

# # #

The early morning light streams through the window of Claire’s guest bedroom—well, it’s actually more like Daniel’s bedroom now, isn’t it?—and hits Sean in the face as he rolls over onto Daniel’s empty side of the bed. He squints and blocks his face with his hand before opening his eye and letting it adjust to the light. Yawning, he swings his legs over the bed and gets up, stretching his arms over his head and letting out a sleepy, satisfied moan. He’s been staying with the Reynolds for about a week now, and still every night on that bed is like the best night’s sleep he’s ever gotten.

Throwing on some pants, Sean washes up in the bathroom before heading downstairs for breakfast, excitedly imagining being on his own and being able to get up  _ without _ having to put on pants.

“Morning Claire,” Sean says as he joins Daniel at the kitchen table, where he’s already devouring a stack of syrup-drenched pancakes.

“Good morning, Sean,” Claire says back, sliding a couple pancakes onto a plate and handing them to him. “Sleep well?”

“Always.” He playfully nudges Daniel. “Even if this one does keep me up snoring.”

“Hey!” Daniel says, finishing a sticky bite of pancake. “I don’t snore!”

“Do too!”

“Nuh uh!”

Claire laughs, and Sean and Daniel join in. He can’t even express how  _ good _ it feels for things to be somewhat normal again, to be able to joke and play with Daniel and Claire, as if the last two years never even happened.

But they did happen, and Sean can’t forget that. They’ve made him into the person he is today, and ignoring them would be a disservice to all the work he’s put in trying to overcome them. The past doesn’t keep him up anymore, it doesn’t define him, but it is a part of him, and he has to move past it, while still carrying it with him.  _ Emotional baggage _ is a term people throw around a lot, but it’s actually somewhat of an apt description. Sean carries around the past like a pile of rocks in his backpack. It weighs him down, but the longer he carries it, the lighter it seems to feel.

And he would know. Daniel begged him to carry some of the cool rocks he found when they were first starting out on the run.

“Hey, Mom, where do you want these decorations?”

Sean whips his head around upon hearing the familiar voice, just as Karen walks into the room, carrying a cardboard box overflowing with garland and streamers.

“By the back door is fine, dear. Thank you.”

“Hey, Mom,” Daniel says, leaving a half-eaten plate of pancakes behind to jump up and give Karen a hug as she sets the box down.

“Karen? What are you doing here?” Sean says.

“Wow, Sean. Tell me how you really feel,” Karen jokes, squeezing Daniel back. She looks slightly uncomfortable by the affection, but not unwelcoming of it.

“No, I mean...When did you get here?”

“Rolled into town last night, and stopped by this morning to help set up for the party. But  _ someone _ was still sleeping.”

“Oh yeah,” Sean says with a light chuckle. “It’s already Saturday, isn’t it?”

“Sean! You forgot about your own party?” Daniel chides. “How could you?”

Sean gets up from his seat and ruffles Daniel’s hair playfully. Daniel shrugs him off but smiles up at him. “I’ve had other things on my mind,  _ enano _ .”

“How’s the job hunt going?” Karen asks. “You still looking around the Portland area, or have you decided on someplace else?”

“Still looking at Portland, yeah,” Sean says, playfully shoving Daniel back to his seat and sitting down to finish his pancakes. “You can take the boy out of the city, and all that.”

Karen starts sorting through the box, pulling out some wall decorations and searching around for some tape. “Oh, Daniel could you…”

She gestures towards the roll of tape sitting on the table, and Daniel reaches over to grab it. Then a glint flashes in his eye, and he pulls his hand back, focuses on the tape, and the air begins to bend around it. Daniel lifts the tape with his powers and carefully drags it over to Karen, who plucks it from the air. “You know, I am never going to get used to that.” She tapes up some streamers, and then turns back to Sean. “So, you have any luck?”

“I’ve had a couple hits, yeah,” Sean says. “Mostly places looking for part-time help, though. They have a Z-Mart there that I’m considering applying for.”

While Karen starts hanging streamers and tinsel around the wall, Claire grabs Daniel’s now-empty plate and begins rinsing the syrup lake off in the sink. “I think you should find something a bit more permanent,” she says. “Try and start a career.”

“That’s kind of hard to do for an ex-con with no high school diploma, Claire,” Sean says.

“I still don’t like thinking of you as an ex-con,” Claire says, shuddering slightly.

Sean shrugs. “Well, it’s what I am now.”

“You know, Joan used to know a couple people out in Portland,” Karen says. She pulls out a banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY and turns it over in her hands. “Hm, I guess we could use this and say it’s a late birthday party for you? Since we never got to throw you a proper party for your 18th.”

“Oh, send Steven to the party store to get some blank banners or something,” Claire says. “We can write CONGRATULATIONS or WELCOME HOME on them. Maybe get one of those keepsake ones where everybody can sign their name.”

“Karen,” Sean says, “You were saying something about Joan?”

“Oh, right. She knows some people who run an art studio out in Portland, or at least used to. I can ask her to give you their names. Maybe you could get in touch with them, see if they need any help around the studio.”

“That would be really great, actually,” Sean says. “Thanks.”

Karen smiles, but quickly goes back to decorating. It’s obvious she’s still not used to this, the whole motherhood thing. Despite everything, though, Sean is glad she’s here. He’s glad he let her back into his life. She may have been a shitty mother, but as a person, as a friend? She’s pretty alright.

“You know, you’re still always welcome to stay here,” Claire says, scrubbing the last plate and rinsing it off, before drying it with a towel and placing it into the drying rack. She wipes her hands off on the towel and turns back towards Sean. “I could even...we could renovate Karen’s room.”

Sean blinks. “Whoa, really? But you guys haven’t touched that room since…”

“Since she left, I know. Well, maybe it’s time we started to move on.” Claire looks over at Karen. “Is that okay with you?”

Karen nods. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.” She reaches into the box again and pulls out some garland. Daniel jumps up to help her, holding the decorations in place with his powers while Karen tapes them to the wall.

Sean rubs at the back of his neck. “I dunno. That’s really nice and all, but I really think it’s time I started off on my own. I appreciate the offer though, but I’ll probably only stay another few weeks at most.”

“Aww!” Daniel pouts, letting go of the last bit of garland before rushing over to give Sean a hug. “But I’m gonna miss you!”

“Don’t worry,  _ enano _ ,” Sean laughs. “Portland is only a half hour away. We can see each other whenever we want.”

“I knowwwww,” Daniel whines. “But it’s not the same.”

“Maybe I’ll end up with a super cool apartment,” Sean says. “With a pool and a playground and lots of other kids in the area, and you can come over and stay with me over the weekend and we can play lots of PlayBox and watch tons of movies on my flat-screen TV.”

Karen laughs. “Exactly how much money are you expecting to make at this Z-Mart?”

“Hey, maybe my art will take off and I’ll end up rolling in dough. You never know!”

# # #

By the time the party starts, Sean has watched Daniel eat so many cookies that he’s sure if the kid has one more, he’s gonna ralph. Chris is the first to arrive, obviously, since he lives just next door. Basically everybody else that’s coming is from out of town, so they don’t show up until later in the afternoon, but by 6 P.M., Claire’s house is filled with life, laughter, and of course, delectable sweets baked by Claire herself.

There’s also a pizza, because Daniel insisted.

It’s all a little overwhelming. The loud chatter of Claire’s various church friends all trying to have different conversations at the same time hurts Sean’s head. It’s too cold to have the party outside, though, so everybody’s crammed in the living room, spilling out into the kitchen with people searching for snacks. Sean is considering hiding away upstairs, just for a little bit of quiet, but he can’t do that. It’s  _ his _ party.

“You doing okay, Sean?” Lyla asks. She showed up about an hour and a half ago, alongside Ellery, Mike, and...Jenn. Who he’s been avoiding, just a bit. Obviously, he said hello and accepted her hug, and he politely pretended not to notice her staring at his eye, or lack thereof, but since then he’s left his old friends more or less to their own devices.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s just...it’s just kinda loud in here.”

Lyla leans in close. “Think we could manage to sneak away for a quick smoke?”

The air outside is harsh, like walking into a sheet of ice, not aided by the tobacco. Sean shivers, holding the cigarette between his teeth as he zips up his jacket. He takes a drag, and nearly coughs it all back up. It’s his first cigarette in forever, since he couldn’t smoke in prison, and staying with his grandparents hasn’t exactly given him much opportunity.

“So,” Lyla says, blowing out a puff of smoke away from Sean’s face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

“What do you mean?”

She knocks on Sean’s head. “There’s clearly more going on up there than just ‘it’s kinda loud.’”

Sean sighs. He takes another drag, this time able to hold it in for a second before letting it out. He can already feel the nicotine flooding his lungs. “I guess, yeah. It’s just...it’s weird, seeing the gang. Like, I’m happy to see them, because it’s been literally forever—”

“Misusing the word literally, but go on.”

“—but it feels like...like they’re from another lifetime. I know it was only two years ago, but that’s how it feels. I mean, we’re all so different now. You guys have all graduated and started college, and I haven’t even gotten started on getting my GED. With you, it’s different, ‘cause we’re like, best buds, but with the others...when I see them, it just...reminds me of everything I’ve lost, you know?”

“I totally get that,” Lyla says. “I’m sure it can’t be easy seeing Jenn after all this time, either. You know she’s dating George from geometry now? They’ve been going out for almost a year.”

“Geometry George? Really?” Sean laughs. “I always thought he was gay.”

“So did I,” Lyla says with a light shrug. “But I guess not. How does...how does that make you feel?”

“What? George not being gay?”

“No, him dating Jenn. I know you were...really into her.”

God, that seems like forever ago. He hasn’t thought about Jenn that way in literally two years. And definitely not since...not since he and Finn…

“Lyla, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“Okay?”

“I...kissed a boy.”

Lyla’s face seems to expand in slow-motion. Sean watches as she moves from neutral to bewildered to ecstatic. “Oh my god! Sean!!”

“Shhh,” Sean says. He looks over his shoulder. “Don’t...don’t make a big deal about it. I haven’t told Claire and Stephen yet. I’m waiting to be out of their house first.”

Lyla pantomimes the act of zipping her lips shut and throwing away the key, which is a useless gesture since she immediately opens it and squeals. “Okay, so tell me  _ everything _ . What’s his name? What was it like? Are you two dating? Are you gay or bi or what?”

Lyla’s overactive excitement makes Sean flinch. “Uhh, Finn.  _ Really _ fucking good. No, I haven’t seen him since...since Humboldt. And it took me a while to figure out, but I think I’m bi.”

Lyla stomps out the remains of her cigarette and throws her arms around him. “I’m so fucking happy for you, dude. Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course, Lyla. Thanks for being so cool about it.”

Another cigarette later, Sean hears the crunch of somebody walking in the snow, and quickly stomps out the last bit of his cigarette, coughing up the remains of his smoke. Claire rounds the corner and sees the two of them huddling under the light. She looks only moderately confused, but she doesn’t seem to notice the smoke. “Oh, here you are, Sean. Somebody’s here to see you.”

“Who?”

Claire smiles. “Well, you would see if you come inside!”

Lyla pats Sean on the shoulder. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Sean follows his grandmother inside, thankful to be out of the cold, and sees not one, but two familiar faces standing in the hallway.

“Dr. Bright! You made it!” Sean offers a hand for her to shake, but instead, Dr. Bright pulls him in and gives him a hug.

“Of course I did. Congratulations, Sean.”

As Dr. Bright breaks the hug, Agent Flores finishes putting her scarf on the hall tree and joins Dr. Bright and Sean in the living room. She clasps a hand over his shoulder. “Congratulations, kid.”

“Thanks Agent Flores,” he says.

She smiles. “You can call me Maria.”

“How are you doing, Sean?” Dr. Bright asks.

Sean waves his hands in front of him. “Ohhh no. You’re here for a party, not another therapy session. Why don’t you come in and have some cake before you psychoanalyze me.”

Dr. Bright laughs. “Fair enough.”

It’s so cool to see Dr. Bright outside of a therapy session or courtroom. This is probably the first time Sean’s seen her wearing normal street clothes. Usually she’s dressed up all professionally in suit coats and slacks, but tonight she’s wearing jeans. Jeans! It’s still all a bit of a shock. All joking aside, though, it’s nice to see her in a more casual setting, like they’re becoming friends.

Apparently this happens quite a bit to her.

And she’s here with Flores—Maria, sorry. Dr. Bright’s been sort of tight-lipped about her personal life during therapy sessions, but clearly now that he’s no longer her patient, that boundary has been broken. She has no qualms now about looping her arm through Maria’s, smiling up at her as she chats with Stephen and laughs at his bad jokes.

She seems...happy. They both do. It’s harder to tell with Maria, because she’s a lot less expressive than Dr. Bright, but this might be the first time Sean has ever seen her smile.

So yeah, maybe it’s a little loud, and maybe seeing his old friends makes him feel like he’s missed out on a lot, but all in all, it’s a great party. It’s heartening to be surrounded by people who love you, who fought for you. It feels like the start of a new era, a new chapter in his story.

And whether it’s good or bad, Sean’s determined to read it through to the last page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is! The final chapter of _Stay Strange_. I can't believe I've been working on this story for two whole months. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me through this, and a big thank you to my beta readers who helped me bring this story to life in its best form possible. To everybody reading this after the fact, I hope you enjoyed it, and thanks for reading!
> 
> I was actually considering writing a short little epilogue to this, showing what Sean is up to now that he's a free man, but I decided not to, that it might betray the ending of this chapter. Sean's life is whatever you want it to be now lol. But who knows, maybe I'll write something short and throw it up online somewhere (more info on my twitter, @darkjaden825698).
> 
> My next big project is _Closer to the Heart_. It's going to be an AU where instead of running away, the boys go to stay with Claire and Stephen, and they have to adjust to their new normal while dealing with their grief and anger and also Daniel's powers. 
> 
> That one is probably going to be a long one—I'm on Chapter 7 and already have about 25,000 words—so be patient while I get that one ready haha. I had an idea for a sequel to my oneshot _Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want_ that I might try to throw up in the meantime, but the idea I had is kind of falling flat the more I write it, so who knows. The point is I'm not done with the Life is Strange 2 fandom. (Unfortunately this is probably going to be my last foray into the Bright Sessions fandom lol, but who knows, never say never.)
> 
> Speaking of, I'm gonna stop talking your ear off but I did want to say: if you haven't listened to the Bright Sessions, you should! I'm not usually a podcast kinda guy but I was hooked from the first episode. It's all available for free on Spotify, so if you enjoy supernatural stuff, deep characters with flaws and arcs, and a whole bunch of gay shit, then you'll probably like the Bright Sessions lol. And if you're still skeptical, but that 'whole bunch of gay shit' still sounds appealing to you, check out _The Infinite Noise_ by Lauren Shippen. It's an adaptation of one of the plotlines from the first season of the Bright Sessions. It does spoil a _little_ bit of the podcast, specifically what goes on in Caleb's plot, but it strays away from the larger picture so you can still enjoy both separately.
> 
> But anyway, thanks for reading once again!!


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